


Beautiful Child

by Teaandcakes



Series: Beyond Ourselves [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BDSM, Ballet, Becoming more switchlock as time goes on, Canonical Minor Character Death, Discussion of historic child sexual abuse, Drug Abuse, Equestrian!lock, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Kidnapping, M/M, Mental Instability, Parentlock, Whump, boarding schools, bottomlock, holmescest, incestuous thoughts, ponies, red squirrels, serious injury, still more Bottomlock than top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-02-20 06:44:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 95,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2418926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teaandcakes/pseuds/Teaandcakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set shortly after the Epilogue to "The Shape of Our Perfection", Sherlock and John (now Sir John Watson-Holmes) are married, with a five year old son Parthalan "Bee" (Sherlock's child) and a two year old daughter, Ishbel (John's child). They split their time between Baker Street and a tiny cottage in Sussex. </p><p>This story sees the return of the exiled Mary, with her daughter. The circumstances of her return blows the Holmes-Watson marriage apart.</p><p>Will John and Ishbel return to Sherlock, and will Sherlock even be there? Will Mycroft fight his own brother for custody of Parthalan in the hope of protecting "Bee" from his father's wayward behaviour? Or will Sherlock step up, and Mycroft's fulfilment come ultimately from another direction entirely?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mary makes her re-entrance......

**Author's Note:**

> Parthalan = Gaelic for Bartholomew. 
> 
> The title for this Fic is from the Fleetwood Mac song of the same name. At certain points in the story, it will be clear why this the case......especially Chapter 5......
> 
> My stories tend to take a few chapters to get going, stick with it until ch5 at least and I promise there'll be lots happening!

The blonde woman in the floral wrap skirt and v-necked lemon yellow T-shirt parked deftly, in a smallish space on the side of the road. Her mirror sunglasses hid her eyes from view, the slash of scarlet lipstick adding to the dramatic impression. Feminine but business-like. A look that said, "Don't fuck with me. Really. Just -don't."

She wasn't armed. The weather was warm for a spring afternoon and the outfit she'd chosen was thin and figure-hugging. Unless she'd gone in for something novel created by "Q", she wasn't packing any lead today and she wasn't planning on any long-distance hikes. A stark contrast with that dark evening in Magnusson's office, when she had carried and readily used her silenced firearm, on a man who had just offered to help her.....

Anya, for she was no longer Mary, was here to pick up her daughter from school, just as she did every day. The daughter was seven now, slim like her mother, with long blonde hair in a pony tail but intense dark brown eyes, her father's eyes, an unusual combination. She'd once been called Rebecca, just for those few short days in a London hospital, but for almost all of her life she had been Rachel. No middle name, and the surname was her mother's and hence kind of irrelevant: a carefully constructed fiction, like everything else about her life. 

The playground filled up with small children struggling to master the dual demands of leaving the schoolroom and pulling on a jacket with two sleeves, a task that was clearly beyond some of the younger kids. One of them, frustrated with his limited abilities, just sat down, suddenly on the floor and started to cry. The other children ran past him in oblivious waves, ignoring him, with the unconscious selfishness small children seem happy to openly display to their kith and kin. Eventually a teacher noticed the lumpen infant, and scooped up the sad damp bundle. Sleeves untangled, tears and nose wiped, and calm started to descend. 

........

The small silver BMW pulled away, and they followed it until it reached a tall townhouse, where Rachel was dropped off at a registered childminders. They knew that. She went there occasionally. Unusual time for it, though, this. 

There must be an appointment. 

Maybe today, after their rotation of six weeks of sheer mind-numbing surveillance, they're in business.

They are disappointed. Not that she doesn't look good with the new haircut, it's fetching enough, and she's an attractive woman, if a little hard-bitten, but this.....this is not what M16 was looking for from her.

............

The next day, the same pattern. Similar outfit. Pickup Rachel from school. This time, stop at the bakery. Taking cakes to the childminder. Maybe out for longer, then? The agents snap to attention.

They follow the car, heading out of town this time. She's sharp, and they have to use all their tricks of the trade to avoid being spotted, including some educated guesswork when they fear they could be vulnerable to being noticed, and so need to drop back out of sight. 

They are rewarded. She does not see them, and they head to the east of the town, through neighbourhoods that get progressively scruffier and poorer. Eventually, after about fifteen minutes, she drives over a rattling swing bridge into the run-down old docks area, and pulls up outside a tatty stevedore's cafe. A cafe which serves bacon baps and sausage sandwiches as well as Spanish staples like tortilla, and asks punters if they want 'red' or 'brown' on them, and which some people from Vauxhall Cross have already bugged, and within which, an agent, also from M16, is already working as a waiter. The agents parked out of sight in their car can see him now, this fake waiter, slim and dark, wiping down tables, replenishing cutlery, polishing glasses, huffing on them and then buffing them with his apron. He's good, they'll give him that. You wouldn't know.

Anya might not be armed, but those she is meeting are highly likely to be. So Mr Waiter, otherwise known as Stefan, is tooled up. So too are the agents in the car. But they're not here to take her out, nor her mystery companion: Six has been protecting this Anya for the past seven years. 

But they need some of the surveillance to be covert, opaque, even to Anya.

She's sitting now, talking to a middle-aged dark-skinned man with tattoos and stubble. It's a cliche, and in Spain, hardly an identifier, but he has both, and no unusual birthmarks or facial tics. So they settle for the tattoos/stubble man. They are an odd pair, to be here, after all, to be drinking coffee and exchanging small talk. He's not a known associate. He's also not vetted. Maybe a boyfriend? If so, he should have been on the radar? They're running facial recog on him now, back in GCHQ, nestled in genteel and leafy Cheltenham. They hope they sit long enough to get a pos ID on him.

..........

For the first six years after her unmasking as Moriarty's number three, and as the mother of Moriarty's child, (his number two, Sebastian Moran, having been ruled out on the basis of inconvenient lack of a serviceable uterus....), Anya Armstrong (or Mary Morstan as she was known to her witlessly oblivious husband, Doctor John Hamish Watson), was a good girl. 

She accepted the strictures of her new identity, and the need to leave everything behind her. She'd done that a few times before, so it was nothing new, only the permanence was novel. She didn't make a fuss about location, about accommodation, about money. She even seemed to understand that, however distasteful, she would really require the permanent protection of M16, in order to safeguard her from some of her less forgiving former employers. 

Grateful, almost. 

Almost.

............

At the beginning of all these games, not long after John Watson, wearing a scary twisted smile, left screwed-up DNA test results on her bed in the dreary maternity ward and marched away from both her and the child, and into a long journey that ended with his superb cock, (which had been officially hers, don't forget), stuffed firmly up the arse of his delicious but strange flatmate; she asked Mycroft Holmes, brother of said delicious arse, and ultimately responsible for all of this measured and calculated mercy, why they were bothering? 

Why not just let her loose, as a tasty snack for the first band of outlaws, twitchy terrorist cell or super-judicial killers that fancied a crack at her? There were enough of them, after all, out there; and agents got terribly bored after a while, without something, some sacrificial and expendable target, to nibble at?

Mycroft smiled thinly at her, frowned, and swizzled that bloody pointy umbrella, which she knew for a fact was part rain shield, part rapier and part poison vial. Then he dissembled for a while, smarming on about national security and asset protection, until she looked at him with a direct gaze, silently telling him to cut the crap; and he looked down, and then he looked away, and shrugged his bony and entitled three-piece suited shoulders. 

'It's the child, Anya. You are a mother, and she is only a baby, and she needs you. And none of this - none of it - is her fault. Because of that; because my damaged and vulnerable little brother loves John Watson, who touchingly does not want you killed: and only because of that, Anya: you get one chance. 

It is against my better judgement. Since you shot and almost killed my brother, there will be no leeway and certainly no hint of further mercy. And if you do slip, ever, in any way at all, Anya, I will happily kill you myself, face to face. As the blood drains from your face, I will show no expression.

I am not so clouded by sentiment as my brother. He is fatally weakened by his grand passion for his tattered heroic soldier.'

..............

Anya still didn't really understand, no, not really? Because this was Mycroft's call, in the end, not Sherlock's and certainly not John's. But then, Anya, like the rest of the world, was never privy to the truth about Mycroft's own childhood: about Sherrinford, about the accident. About the blame he wrapped around himself and wore. So she didn't understand his reluctance to assassinate a woman who had a very young child, whenever it could be avoided. And she wouldn't have shown herself the same mercy, that was for sure: children (except her own) were collateral damage in her world, and she'd assumed Mycroft was no different. 

But she accepted her good fortune, although she didn't know if her gold run would last forever. M16 were good at what they did, but they needed to be good and lucky every day; and, as the IRA liked to remind the British Government during the height of the Troubles; any potential assassin "only needs to be lucky once". 

So she shrugged, and nodded, and inwardly thanked John Watson, not only for being the only man for whom she had ever had genuine feelings, but also for keeping her alive, even though he could not bear to have her in his sight. 

And she hoped he was happy, her John; in his new incarnation as husband to the temperamental genius, who had, against the odds, inconveniently defied her attempt to erase him from this earth. 

Perhaps if she had succeeded that night, with Sherlock's delayed but certain demise enabling her own escape, things would have turned out differently for her. CAM would still be dead, but at her hand, not Sherlock's, and she would be tip-top of Moriarty's legacy structure. And John would still be with her, perhaps; with her and with Rebecca, as a family. If he hadn't found out so soon about the baby's father............she blithely ignored the fact that it was John Watson who had spotted the genetic queries, not Sherlock, and that it was at a time when Sherlock was having a full-blown breakdown, in leather and eyeliner being fucked in rainy dark alleyways by strangers, in return for depressingly pathetically small quantities of Class A drugs.

She kept her thoughts contained and they thrived away from reality. She genuinely thought John might have been with her, where she still, even now, thought he belonged. The years of lying and skilfully deluding those around her, had turned now, into a form of self-delusion. She clung to it, instead of the alternative, the current reality; this lonely and ridiculous life in exile, with just her fatherless, rootless little girl to keep her sane, and no intoxicating buzz of adrenalin to keep her feeling alive.

........

She rose to leave now, scraping back her wooden chair on the gaudy Moorish pattern tiled floor, and left money and a generous tip for her purchases. Nodded at her companion, who nodded back but did not look up. He seemed absorbed in making a pattern with salt on the table.

It had been good to start the ball rolling again. Anya concluded. Rachel was old enough now that she was at school all day and from now on, would be at the childminder most afternoons after school. It was time for Anya to get back in the saddle, to get some excitement back in her life. There were still people, groups, organisations, who would pay good money for a good agent. And she was bloody good. 

She'd just got a bit greedy, was all. And a bit unlucky, in running into the Holmes's sights and up against the hungry passion of Sherlock for John, and of Mycroft for......Well.....Mary had seen many things during her years of operations. But she'd never seen a relationship between two brothers quite like that of those two. 

..........

Outside into the sunshine, and into the car. Grimacing at the burning heat of the leather seats. Air con on full. Sunglasses back on, for the glare. Started the car, and drove out of the unpaved car park, out onto the pale asphalt road. Back across the bridge and onto the main coastal road. Along, out of town and climbing, now, into the hills. There was a sharp rise here, with steep, winding corners. A sheer drop on one side. A hundred feet, maybe one twenty? A ribbon of road, a feat of engineering.

She was humming, and the sun was still shining. The air was fresher here, and it was nice. The radio was blasting out country classics. Life wasn't that bad. She wondered if she'd remembered to put the Pouilly-Fume into the fridge? Damn. She hadn't. Nothing worse than a warm white.

..........

As she approached the third loop of the five big hairpins on the hillside, the sound only reaching her ears, it seemed, way too long after the event, there was an almighty bang. She jumped, as the car jumped too.

Not an explosion as such. Not a gunshot. Tyre blowout? Perhaps. She hadn't given the car more than a cursory glance before she got in, relying on her spook shadows to keep watch for any interference with her vehicle. Might as well give them something to do, she knew only too well, how mind-numbingly dull surveillance jobs could be. It was maintained well, too, every six months. Hadn't been expecting this then. Maybe something on the road? 

All of this ran through her mind in the split second between Bang.....and the utterly unrecoverable consequences. It didn't matter about the road anymore. She lost control of the car. It seemed to surprise her. 

Modern cars give you the impression of immortal impregnability, sealed from the elements, and from danger alike.

It's a lie. 

...........

The car careered into the crash barrier. Long strips of corrugated steel bolted to concreted-in upright box-section, and they should have held: she wasn't driving fast. There hadn't been a fatality here since it was installed seven years ago and the city authority was scrupulous on the annual checks, surprising, really, since they weren't so hot on much else in the urbanisation.

They didn't hold. The bolts were mostly missing. Why would that be? Irrelevant, now, to Anya. She didn't know. Too late to be relevant for her.

The car flew through the barrier as though the corrugated steel was so much folded paper. It looked like a child's pull-back and release toy, flying though the air. A scene from a movie, maybe one of John's infernal Bond films, the pursuing baddie revving straight off the scenic Corniche to their satisfying doom. And now, her own car's engine was revving furiously too, as Anya's feet braced desperately against the floor. 

The noise was deafening, but at the same time everything was utterly, chillingly quiet. 

It took about eight seconds for the car, and Anya its helplessly unwilling cargo, to travel the distance between the rumbling routine of the road surface, and the rocks of the valley floor. Eight seconds, in which she first disbelieved the truth rushing up to meet her, then screamed, and then was struck dumb and still, by the knowledge that this time, it wasn't about power and control and how good you are at what you do. 

Being one step ahead, was no longer enough. This time, it was about cutting the wrong wire, stepping into the lift that isn't there, not looking left and right when you cross the road and thinking you have time to make it across. She had missed something, she knew. Something important. She just didn't know what. She thought it wasn't an accident. Strike that. She knew it wasn't an accident. 

That wasn't the last thing she thought. Her last thought was of Rachel, of Rebecca. Who would collect her from the childminder? The cakes were nice but they wouldn't last forever, Rachel would want her tea soon......

No time for more thoughts. The car struck the ground, and crumpled into something half its size. 

All went quiet. 

And then the fire started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For background on the Sherrinford tragedy and Mycroft's emotions on mothers losing children, please refer to the short prequel: "Exit Stage Left - the Other Holmes Boy" on A03
> 
> The whole story of William/Sherlock's early life, relationships and very troubled back story can be found in the 4-part "Beyond Ourselves" series on A03
> 
> For those who thanked me for my mercy to Mary in the first fic I wrote, "The Life and Death of William SS Holmes", I apologise for now turning out such a shameless turncoat.
> 
> But this was always what I planned when I let her go then; I can't resist the chance to bring her back for one final emotional twist with Sherlock and John now settled and married. And Rachel will be fascinating. Oh yeah, and just....Mary as Bond villain, well......I couldn't not, could I?


	2. An unusual child, and a loving Uncle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to Frakme for once again beta-ing and "keeping me right"!

Mycroft Holmes wasn't thinking about Anya right now. Nor, extraordinarily, about anything to do with his work. 

Granting himself a rare day off from all matters Defence of the Realm, Mycroft had been granted the even rarer prize of an afternoon with his five-year-old nephew, Parthalan 'Bee' Mycroft Holmes. 

He got this gift once a fortnight, maybe once a month. Not that Parthalan was terribly rewarding company, at least in objective terms, as he was missing a horse-riding lesson for this tedium. He'd only just started riding and was still at the bouncing around on fat hairy pony stage, especially in trot, but he was as keen as mustard. 

He liked his uncle very much, though he was a bit of a stiff old stick, like his brolly, but he liked Trifle the pony more, even though she cow-kicked when her girth was tightened. Sherlock, his 'Papa', had told Parthalan about his own childhood, riding to hounds with the Royal Artillery Hunt on Salisbury Plain. It was always drag-hunting an aniseed trail, because most of the Plain is an army training area, so a fox might have led you all straight into a live firing zone. Shame, that, though. Parthalan liked the idea of shells falling and galloping for safety.......

Sherlock had told him that by five years old, he himself been out with Parthalan's Granny (on his pony on the lead-rope) for a full day's proper hunting, swapping for fresh second ponies at lunchtime and eating sausage rolls with muddy frozen fingers from silver trays, held by women with blonde hair swept back by Alice Bands and profiles sharper than a metal set square. They didn't seem to move their jaws at all when they spoke, and their smiles never reached their eyes.

Riding had been very much Sherlock's idea, then. 

................

John, well, John the doctor, hmmm, well, John knew that horse-riding was pretty much second only to base-jumping in statistical injury risk and had treated the life-changing consequences of slow rotational falls, especially from the hunting field, and "wasn't at all keen, Sherlock, seriously". He didn't like to admit that he was also slightly scared of horses and the smaller they were, the more evil he thought they looked.

It was the only argument that Sherlock and John had yet had, which came down to the 'he's my son' joker card coming into play. There was nothing funny or amusing about that game. 

That sharp and damaging gauntlet of challenge once thrown down, Parthalan had indeed still gone horse-riding at a large and muddy stables in Barnet; in return, a silent muttering door-slamming stair-stamping John, had first gone very tight-lipped and in his turn later that day, had gone on a massive pub crawl bender, first with Mike Stamford and then later that night with Greg, once the latter was free from work. 

John was furious with Sherlock, who waltzed into his own son's life sometimes rather like a stylish party entertainer and more often waltzed out; so John felt it was easier to restrain his barely-latent anger tendencies (of which he was VERY aware), if he was so drunk that he was barely able to reach the door of their flat, let alone punch his aggravating spouse on the nose or worse. He returned home, therefore, at almost three in the morning, crawled up the seventeen steps to 221B and thence staggered into their bedroom where Sherlock was scowling and tapping away on John's laptop.

And then John dramatically vomited a sea of purest orange puke into Sherlock's finest bespoke patent formal dress shoes. From this night, Sherlock's Ducker's Dazzlers never lost the faint melancholy odour of college toilets after a May Ball and Sherlock considered this insult added to injury. (Despite his analytical abilities, it was never determined exactly what had led to the John-vomit being quite so spectacularly orange in hue, though Irn Bru was mentioned).

Sherlock hadn't minded so much about the vomit or the drinking session, though by the same token, he had absolutely no intention of stopping Parthalan riding horses either. He did, however, frown when, mopping John's face after he had finished hurling up his guts, his nose detected a slight hint of feminine perfume about his husband's sturdy and compact personage. 

He's been hugging. A woman. Possibly more than one. Mmmphhh. Sherlock wrinkled his nose in distaste.

"Hugging matey hugging" or "hugging hugging"? More research and data required, Sherlock concluded, not yet (ever?) cured of the irrational fear, that John who had consorted only with women for so much of his life, would one day wake up and realise with horror, that he was in bed with an actual man and that this wasn't a inviting lady-vagina he was invading with his splendid silky-suede cock, but the unspeakable outrage of another man's arsehole. 

It was the curse of being bisexual, therefore and especially a delicate later-flowering variety, that John felt regarded with much more suspicion of incipient infidelity, than Sherlock ever did. This despite the "events" with Prince Wasim and the fact that when it came to casual sex with strangers, it was Watson-Holmes, (W) S, who had the monopoly and Watson-Holmes, J H, Sir, was never even into in the starting stalls. 

...............

Parthalan, youngest heir to the Holmes fortune, a mixed blessing in many ways, was not pleased by missing today's third-ever riding lesson and even less by the simmering conflict between his parents, which he had sensed surrounded his new hobby. 

He was very attuned to any vibrations in the atmosphere between his parents and found any hint of it profoundly distressing. He sensed things and felt them deeply. 

One day, as an adult, that would prove to be his greatest advantage of all, the key to his genius and the reason people would remember him many decades after his death. For now, as a small child, with parents who struggled to maintain a calm and ordered atmosphere in all of their lives, it was anything but.

He was also worried, because his gym class, well, more tots tumbling class really, was at five pm and that was even more important to him than his horse-riding. Gymnastics, especially tumbling and floor work, were his biggest preoccupation. He was starting dance lessons too, in a week's time. Just general stuff, all kinds of dance, tap, ballet, modern, jazz. But he was looking forward to that more than anything. 

He'd already been to musicals with his Holmes grandparents and also to the ballet once with Sherlock and John. 

John fell asleep halfway through the first act of the ballet and Parthalan thought that Papa might have done something Rude to wake Dad up in the dark, as he'd seen John suddenly sit up and Sherlock's hand withdrawing from John's pocket, but to be fair it had definitely woken Dad John up very quickly and stopped his snores interfering with his and Papa's considerable enjoyment of the performance. And maybe Papa was looking for a cough sweet?

...............

Mycroft had to agree to get Bee back for the gym session, or there is no way that this obstinate skinny-minnie would ever have left the house. He was so like William had been, at that age, Mycroft thought. Sulking, determined, whippet-thin and yet becoming the very promise of something so graceful. 

Mycroft could not refuse William anything and Parthalan was little different. He may have lacked William's manipulative charm and humour, instead employing downcast mouth, trembling lip and enormous liquid eyes, but he was Sherlock's and he was beautiful beyond all compare. Mycroft knew full well he was just another adult slave, in the starry firmament of this boy prince's privileged and cloistered life.

...........

Except, looking at it from the other side, privilege for Parthalan was always balanced by the worry. Parthalan's head filled itself entirely with it, which the small William had never done, at least before disaster struck. William hadn't needed organised hobbies to amuse himself, he had created his own world of delights, running wild at Holmes Manor with bows and arrows, shortbread and Redbeard in those early years, before the freedom and the fun dissolved into terror and abject distress. 

Parthalan was, by contrast, a proper London child, bred to breathe exclusively exhaust fumes in specially evolved urban lungs and designed be ferried from one "stimulating" pastime to the next by harassed parents and carers. 

He didn't get to have London all of the time, or even most of it. They were down in Sussex most of the week and he hated that, really, because there was no Papa down there, Sherlock choosing to stay in Baker Street without the children and as a result without John too, for four days a week; there was practically nothing for a Parthalan sort of a chap to do in Sussex until Papa came down on Thursday nights to release the strange child from the bondage of preschool and Dad John's loving but strict care. To free him into the excitement of Sherlock's unpredictable and frankly reckless version of parenting.

Ishbel didn't mind the things that Parthalan did, of course, but Ishbel was only two so she hardly counted and she was a girl anyway. And she was John's child, which Parthalan knew was why she was blonde and short and solid but he was tall, dark and thin, all knees, elbows and eyelashes. 

And maybe also why she was always happy and he was not.

..............

His parents had always been open with him about their parentage. And that was probably why, because she was John's, that Ishbel smiled all day with her irritatingly sunny disposition, when Parthalan knew he had barely smiled at anyone at her age. Let alone stupid strangers, doctors and boring aunts who weren't aunts but you mysteriously still had to call them aunts. He usually fell stony silent when these occasions intruded, avoiding eye contact and shuffling in a corner. 

It wasn't that he didn't like them, they were all nice people. It's that he felt like a performing monkey when strangers spoke to him. He didn't understand what the right responses were, the right gestures. He didn't want to be there, he wanted to be moving, leaping and making his body obey him.

It's why he loved riding and gym, especially the dance parts. They were expressive activities, but within a framework, that you could learn and understand. They were exciting, because there was always room to interpret, or make a mistake, but they were knowable arts. 

He loved the horse riding too, because the horses didn't corner him and speak to him with too loud voices and ask him to do things. They didn't speak at all. All he had to do was to quietly and calmly show them what he wanted them to do, silently, in gestures, pressure and release, and they would respond. Like having extra limbs as well as your own. And it was exhilarating; he was having his first canter next time and he knew from other children at the stables that trot when you're not used to it, was the price you pay as a rider for getting to canter… he couldn't wait.

He didn't mind all the aunts and uncles. One of the aunts, Aunty Anthea, was his "biological mother", he knew. He sort of understood what that meant, just a bit. There was an Easter egg from Aunty Anthea, a nice one, maybe a Thornton's one? And then there was a hungry fish from Papa, maybe orange like Nemo and the fish ate the Easter egg in a tank and then grew into a baby which was him. (This wasn't quite how Parthalan was told about his parentage, but it's what he heard in his funny little brain and it's not as if his understanding worried him any, because after all, he was five and it just was how it was). He knew, though, that they said, Dad John who used to be a Doctor said, that not all babies were made like this, which was good, because he didn't want there to be a shortage of chocolate, if it all got used for fish food for baby-making.

She didn't come often, Aunty Anthea, just at New Year and sometimes his birthday, when she wasn't bossing soldiers and spies, which she said she was very good at, but she smelt nice and she sent him truly excellent presents both on his birthday and at Christmas, and she knew that he liked gym best of all and she bought him one of the big proper gym mats so he could do tumbles off the bed in his bedroom, which had once been most of John's room. 

From that day on there was a often a constant refrain of muffled thumps from his room which meant that his parents knew firstly, that he was still alive, and secondly that he was having fun.

.................

John, or Dad, or Dad John as he was known, (which was weird because Papa was his biological Dad, but Parthalan didn't mind too much), had parented him the vast majority of his life. It was Dad John who had picked him up when he fell, wiped his nose and tucked him up in bed. Read him stories, most nights. And he loved Dad John, in as much as his shuttered little heart could love anyone who wasn't Papa. But as with so many relationships, where one parent is at home and the other sweeps in occasionally, bringing excitement and presents and glamour, John simply could not compete with Sherlock. 

John knew that only too well and it saddened him, just a little a bit, though he did not show it and he didn't not ever allow himself to begrudge his husband the adoration and hero-worship of his own son when Sherlock had gone through so much to get to a place where he could even contemplate living with a child. When admitting Parthalan into even a tiny corner of his life had been traumatic for Sherlock, John was the last one to resent the adoration of the ghostly little moppet for his own father. 

And caring for Parthalan these last few years had, truthfully, saved John the former doctor, in much the same way as Sherlock himself had saved John, the former army medic. 

But, in the end, he was only human and the rarity of close connection from Parthalan inevitably made the birth of his own daughter, Ishbel, an occasion of special joy for John. Maybe there was something in the genetic code that made each child cling to their natural parent, John wasn't sure and to be fair Ishbel seemed to love both John and Sherlock equally, she was just the loving type. Placid and giggly, she was as unlike her brother (half-brother technically, he supposed) as it was possible to imagine. 

So maybe it was just Parthalan? 

The beautiful but mysterious boy seemed to have only a small precious box of love all locked up and he chose to open that box only for Sherlock.

..............

Mycroft took Parthalan on the London Eye, pointing out the ever taller landmarks in the transforming city, and then for an ice cream (Neapolitan for Parthalan, strawberry for Mycroft), and after that to the Palace to look at the Guards in their uniforms trying not to scratch their bums. 

Mycroft couldn't face visiting the waxworks, all poorly moulded and bewigged squinting representations of flavour-of-the-month actors, appearing with razzamatazz one month, only to be melted down quietly and without comment the following year. So instead they went for an early tea at the Ritz, where the sandwiches were "meh" but the cakes were "yum", before Mycroft deposited Parthalan at his gym class. He didn't expect a kiss, and he didn't get one. 

Sherlock's difficulties in expressing himself as a father and the absence of a mother, plus an unusual personality, made Parthalan a boy whose words and kisses were both very few. He was polite, with excellent manners, but behaved more like a quiet ghostly wraith than a boy. He shook hands with Mycroft as he was handed over to his gym teacher. Like a little old man. 

A bit like Mycroft became after Sherry, except Parthalan didn't have a Sherry moment. He was just like this to start with.

Sherrinford would have squashed him flat, Mycroft mused. Would have said he needed "roughing up" a bit. But Mycroft could see that it wasn't that. Parthalan wasn't being unboyish, or rude. He was incredibly focused and simply didn't notice that his behaviour was considered untypical. 

.............. 

Mycroft wondered, sometimes, what this boy's future would hold.


	3. School looms. Sanctuary or catalyst for conflict....?

The 'S' word discussions were starting. School. Where Parthalan would be educated, once he got to seven, and was old enough for prep school. He'd been put down for Eton, of course, by Mycroft, the moment he had caught sight of those thoroughly illegally-obtained medical records and knew that Sherlock's baby would be a boy. Bee's Papa had attended Eton, Mycroft and Sherry too, of course, though the oldest Holmes boy only for a tragically short time; so for Mycroft it was a foregone conclusion. He stumped up the eye-watering reservation fee and he got the boy's place booked, subject as usual to Common Entrance exam pass.

Another generation of Holmes in wing collars and tail coats. Another boy king with the world at his feet. Another unbroken link in the centuries of Holmes history. For Mycroft, this was the world as it should be.

...........

For Sherlock too, it made sense, but for vastly different reasons. For him, Eton might not have been heaven, very far from it; but it had represented his first taste of freedom from the hell that Holmes Manor had quickly become for him. And it was to be the first sweet hint that life was to be what he made of it, rather than his fate dictated by others.

The playing fields, dorms and lessons had offered sanctuary: at home, he was confined, by his own trauma and by the pain of touch, smell, sound and memory, to a bedroom stripped of all furniture, bedlinens and chose to sleep in a plastic dog bed with bought or stolen rugs inside it, because it was easy to clean when he pissed himself, which happened every single long miserable night he spent at the Manor. Because he couldn't keep bed sheets unmarred, because his abuser was still free and because he knew anyway, that unless he dispensed with them, he was eventually going to rip them up: and then he was going to use them to hang himself.

He went to Eton early, then, but it was only just in time for him.

.............

Eton was a positive place, a refuge, a shelf of rock right inside the volcano crater, just out of reach of the flames, even though he was bullied and friendless. Better that, you see, than the alternative. And there was science to be had there. Lots of science. And most of all, there was easy access to London, the ballet, the backstreets and the foreshore.

And once he had read all the books there were to be had about London, about the closed off forgotten derelict buildings, abandoned tunnels and other madcap schemes that left their mark all over the place, he was completely hooked on the city. It didn't have the clean crisp glamour of Paris, or the ancient grandeur of Rome, but what it did have in bucketfuls, was a complete world in a city, of people, of cultures, of architecture and of history. Not in separate neighbourhoods, no "Little" This or That, but instead, living cheek by jowl together, like skeins of wool or great splashes of different plants in a summer border of a garden by the river.

And in the specialist shops, L. Cornelissen in Soho for artists materials, Freed in Covent Garden for ballet shoes, Maison Berteaux for patisserie....endless emporia of beautiful things, that smelt or felt or looked exquisite. Some of them at length grew used to a tall thin boy peering in their window or picking up and touching things in the shop. Some of them worried a little when he sniffed at the merchandise for a little longer than was normal. He didn't always have the money to buy anything: the Holmes family hadn't held onto its fortune for centuries, by handing it out to their minor sons for them to buy whatever took their fancy, and especially not the wayward zephyr with the dark curls, but the shop proprietors generally eventually recognised a connoisseur in training, and the more astute among them could tell that, whilst Sherlock might not be rich now, he was plainly "from money" and of money, old money at that and one day he would likely be one of their best customers.

As such, he was not treated like the nuisance he might have been.

And the Eton teachers, or beaks, as they were known, were kind and even though they only knew that he needed to be away from the Manor, so was coming a year early to the school, they seemed to instinctively understand, that the rules about avoiding all but the briefest physical contact with pupils, were especially relevant in his case.

...........

Later, one of Sherlock's masters, Julian Peters, confided in his wife, a Dame at the school, that once he'd put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder unthinkingly, when standing behind him, chivvying the then fourteen-year-old to get changed for a cricket session. Sherlock hadn't spun round or got angry or run off, he said, but had cringed down under the sudden grip and immediately dropped his trousers and underpants there and then. Like it was an automatic reaction. Like this is "what you do", at fourteen, when an adult man comes up behind you and grabs your shoulder. Stand there shivering, close your eyes tight, and wait.

A few other boys in the crowded changing rooms saw what happened and some of them hooted with derision and disbelief. Holmes Minor was a laughing stock already. His experiments with theatrical make-up had not been as secret as he would have wished. But a couple of the more mature boys also saw, but they didn't laugh. They looked down, or looked away, mouths clamped shut; either wiser from their years, or their maturity, or because they understood only too well that this really was no laughing matter. They were among the few who, from then on, did not kick Holmes Minor's head in, however great the provocation.

Julian Peters was frankly horrified, dragging up the boy's underwear and pinstripe trousers as best and as quietly and as quickly as he could, sending Sherlock straight to the school matron's quarters; though at the same time feeling terrible for making Sherlock feel like he'd done something wrong, when it was blatantly clear that whatever wrongs were done, were done to him, not by him. He immediately contacted both the Dame of his House and they boy's brother, Mycroft Holmes, to express deep concern and to communicate that he suspected that Sherlock might have been, or might still be, a victim of significant sexual abuse.

He was taking a risk by contacting Mycroft, of course, because Old Etonian or not, he could be involved in the abuse; except that it had largely been his instigation to get Sherlock away from home and to the school, so Julian felt that was unlikely.

Julian counted himself very lucky that there were others there on scene as witnesses. What if they had been alone and Sherlock had done the same thing? He would have felt vulnerable to an accusation, which in the end would be one word against another. The witnesses were a blessing for him, he felt, though not of course for Sherlock, with the teasing and taunting that came afterwards.

The incident was dealt with only as it had to be, to protect both the teacher and Sherlock. It would have been better in many ways, had it been possible for the teacher to have been able to take time to talk to Sherlock, in private. But that wasn't "appropriate". All teachers had to ensure they were not putting themselves into positions where they might be accused of something they didn't do. And this boy was showing classic, inappropriate sexualised behaviour. So, it was dealt with as best as it could be.

...............

Julian, who had only joined the teaching staff recently, was shocked at the calm reaction from the boy's brother over the 'phone line when he stumbled the words out. He sounded sad, but not in any way shocked or surprised. Julian Peters was then invited to tea with Mycroft Holmes that same afternoon, in Eton village, in a stifling and pricey tea shop which was mysteriously empty of all other customers, this being its early closing day, and past closing time. Opening hours were clearly fluid when the British Government required scones and friendly warnings to be consumed.

And Julian, by now thoroughly security checked, was told in blunt and chilling detail, about "certain events which did not and would not appear on any official records". Shown classified police paperwork of interviews with the guilty tutor. Told about the recent "tragic accident" that had befallen the perpetrator, quietly and discreetly.

And told just as quietly, that if he ever disclosed anything of this to anyone other than his wife, he too might meet with an accident of some kind.

He thought initially that the man was joking. Well, you would? Until he looked up from finishing his (excellent) sultana scone, to wipe his mouth of crumbs and saw the look on Mycroft's face. The elder Holmes brother might only be rising twenty, but his expression was one of such chilly intent that Julian instantly took him very seriously indeed. A cold chilly thrill ran down his backbone.

...............

Julian Peters left Eton College at the end of Sherlock's final school year, not by coincidence since he was next to be heard of working in a "very minor capacity" for the British Government.

After all, a country needs people, does it not, who can be trusted to keep their mouths shut; for example when the delicate history of the less-than-stable beloved brother of the British Government is concerned? What better test of his suitability?

He spent much of his time subsequently, sitting in the back of less than comfortable white Transit vans, monitoring the activities of some of the nation's more inflammatory Islamist extremist preachers. It was a big change from being an Eton beak, but he thrived on it. Although living on takeaways did nothing at all for his figure. Thankfully the ziggurat at Vauxhall Cross had an excellent gym to work off the souvlaki and the burgers. It was a worthwhile trade-off, he thought, though he'd rather his job offer had come about from less harrowing circumstances for Sherlock..............

So, Sherlock's secrets remained secret and Eton College remained his refuge. Julian Peters took a special interest in doing his best to protect Sherlock from at least the worst of the bullies, for the rest of his school career, although he could not control Sherlock himself, who was wandering London and the Home Counties, as much as he was on school premises, by the end of his schooldays.

Sherlock thought Parthalan should go to the school.

..................

John, on the other hand, was a lot less convinced. Having attended a normal state school, with ordinary kids, he found the idea of sending children away to boarding school somewhat bizarre and slightly cruel, even though he conceded that many of them seemed to enjoy it and that Parthalan wasn't perhaps best equipped to deal with the fray of a thousand pupil comprehensive. He hadn't become a parent, he said, in order to send his child away for weeks at a time. Children belonged at home. Not in kennels.

Equally, John was all too aware, that the unique strains that unsought parenthood had placed upon his fragile husband, were only gradually lessening as the years passed; and that his own joy in the whole experience, was very much less clear-cut for the man he loved.

Aware also, that after the struggle of Parthalan's first couple of years, Sherlock had still allowed the second baby, John's baby; even though he knew he already wasn't coping well. John knew, that if he really was as good a man as Sherlock steadfastly believed him to be; he, John, would have declined the opportunity and focused on supporting his husband and their precious son. Genetics, fuck off. Parthalan was enough. He had all he should need

He could not do it.

He wanted this baby, his own baby, badly and so he eagerly took the agreement of his husband quickly and at face value. He turned his face away from the fear he knew he could have read in Sherlock's expression, even as he agreed with the plan and signed the papers.

He ignored Mycroft's requests not to rush into it, to Tamara's exhortations that she thought they should think carefully before proceeding.

He went ahead. And he hoped for the best. For the baby. And for Sherlock.

................

Three weeks after the delicious little dumpling that was Ishbel Anthea Alicia Watson-Holmes was born, to universal tears of delight and joy, Sherlock Holmes disappeared for an entire week.

He had been making his way back on foot from New Scotland Yard, having consulted Greg on a case, on a day when John and the children were spending their first full week down in Sussex after Ishbel's birth. It was a routine journey. The sun was shining. There were no hints, no clues, that anything at all was amiss.

He should have picked up the takeaway he had rung for according to Mycroft's phone bug, but he never got that far. One minute the CCTV showed Sherlock walking apparently normally, in as much as he did anything normally, down the congested delights of the Marylebone Road: the next, he'd simply vanished into thin air. Puff of smoke job.

...............

They never did find out how he did the disappearing act on that occasion and it was only thanks to blessed Billy Wiggin's unique brand of pointy bloodhound nose for the seedier side of the London criminal underworld that John eventually tracked his missing husband down to a particularly unsavoury crack house in Hainault. It made the one John found him in with Isaac Whitney, a month after John and Mary's wedding, look something like the Ritz.

Billy advised John, as a result of knowing the Hainault gaff, to leave it a few hours before he turned up to extract Sherlock, giving Billy a chance to extract Sherlock and at least dress him in unsoiled clothes, but John ignored him; resulting in Sherlock still being higher than the Shard when John marched into the former car workshop under the railway viaduct in his Angry John jeans and dealer boots, and stood above the slumped figure, the doctor's arms crossed and hissing breaths coming out through John's nose, as he tried to keep a lid on his incandescent rage, feeling of helplessness and personal failure.

When Sherlock finally lifted his drug-hazed eyes to John, his dilated pupils couldn't actually focus and he felt sick with shame and defensive spite. He quickly turned his unfocused gaze back down to the filthy sleeping bag he was lying on, which was originally orange but now stained, sticky with sweat and piss and rat droppings and possibly more. The bacteria in the droppings had led to Sherlock's cough turning back into a recurrence of pneumonia. He curled back up again, into a tight ball, trying to avoid blame and reality, retreating back to the painless, if temporary, haven of chemical swaddling. Instead, he was dragged out of the building by his clothes and summarily hosed down where he slumped in the waste ground in front of the viaduct.

.................

Unlike previous occasions, with Greg fishing him out of Camden alleyways, as high as Jupiter, sometimes having to fend off dealers having sex with the drugged up youth, Sherlock did not fight this time, when John and Mycroft told him he was going straight to rehab. He knew the stakes were so much higher this time, young blameless lives were involved; and this, probably above sexual infidelity, and way above recklessness in his work resulting in injury, was, Sherlock knew, the one thing that risked John walking away for good.

And not only John, of course, Ishbel would be gone too. And Parthalan, even, his Bee, the crooning, cartwheeling, scampering whispering part carved out of him, might go with John; or worse, might be scooped up by Mycroft and spirited away to Holmes Manor to be taught "how to be a Holmes".

Sherlock when high in those dark and dripping Dickensian railway arches sometimes thought of Mycroft as a benign version of the Child Catcher from "ChittyChittyBangBang", skulking around corners with a huge butterfly net, its handle shaped like Myc's own umbrella, to wait for Sherlock to crash and burn so that he could scoop up Sherlock's only son and waft him away to transform him into an English gentleman.

He's forgetting though, Sherlock mused, when clean enough again to think thoughts at all. Parthalan is not susceptible to moulding by adults, however powerful. He's wrought out of porcelain or glass, not willow or hazel. Try to bend this creature to your will and he will simply shatter. All Mycroft would be left with would be a scattered pattern of shards on the floor and a bloody hand.

He hoped it wouldn't come to that.

Of course, if Sherlock really did implode, there was a further option that none of them liked to contemplate. Social Services for the local government might beat Mycroft to it.....and Parthalan could be taken, into what was optimistically called "Care". A foster home if he was lucky. A children's home if he wasn't.

Parthalan would not survive it. That was the only thing they could all agree on.

............

Sherlock was not permitted to return to 221B at all, then, not even to gather any of his clothes. John was implacable; he was not having the children seeing their Papa like this. Not now and not ever. Sherlock looked at John's frozen and devastated face, and did not try to resist.

He felt truly ashamed and mentally simply dissolved into the ground, in a way that he had not since the day Mycroft and his friends broke into the summer house at the Manor and Mycroft looked at William as his chums held the filthy struggling boy, trying to read what on earth could be wrong with the eleven year old; the terrified William, bleeding from self-inflicted cuts all over his body and showing some abrasions that were clearly not self-inflicted, could not meet his brother's eyes.

This lowered gaze, leading to Mycroft's eyes narrowing and then his lip bitten and then Mycroft's fist being stuffed into his mouth, then him spinning round and walking away, as his friends bundled the screaming child into the car; Mycroft walking to a spot around the corner of the old stable where he was no longer in sight, so he could sink to the dry parched ground on his knees and close his eyes to ask the God that he had believed in so loyally and firmly before Sherry died and still believed in, with some doubts, why this God had chosen, now, to forsake his family and himself again so completely?

Mycroft, from that day on, despite his traditional leanings in all things, made an exception for the Church of England and became strictly a wedding, funeral, christening and Christmas churchgoer only.

His mother, by contrast, found huge solace in a renewed faith that only strengthened over the years and the trials to come. It gave her the strength to endure and accept her sorrows. He envied her that, but could not turn envy into emulation.

..............

So Sherlock, this time, slunk away quietly and without protest. He even agreed to Mycroft's choice of very expensive but very discreet and secure facility. If sackcloth had been available, he would have taken that too, gladly. 

...............

It had worked, after that, for a long time. Sherlock was clean as a whistle, not even smoking and even got off the nicotine patches. He replaced this array of vices with an obsession with his own variants of fruit teas. John periodically had them tested, of course, to make sure there was nothing of the "herbal soother" about them, but was relieved to discover that there was not, although he wasn't so convinced that artichoke and shrimp was really a nice flavouring for a cuppa? Sherlock did not complain about the possible lack of trust such tests implied. He knew that trust had to be earned and he didn't have a great track record.

It was good, all good, for about three years. Recently, though, it wasn't entirely clear why now at all, cracks had resurfaced; a few months ago, Sherlock disappeared again.

.............

By the time they found him, a whole six weeks later this time, it was much further away, on Brownsea island off the Dorset Coast, sharing his meagre and dwindling food rations with the red squirrels, he was apparently clean. He claimed not to have been using again during his absence. John saw marks which he thought were track marks, but Sherlock claimed they were midge bites from camping in the damp woodland and since neither was able to prove or disprove the other's argument, the doubt hung in the air like a disagreeable thing the cat brought in, but no one can find where exactly the thing is, or what exactly it might, once, have been.

John had tried, of course to discover the trigger for this absence. The previous one and the drug relapse had been clearly driven by stresses around the birth of Ishbel, but this time there just wasn't anything obvious.

And that worried John more, not just because of the sheer length of time Sherlock had been gone, but because if he could disappear for apparently no reason, who could predict when he might do it again? And how often? John just hoped that his son's distress might have more success in bringing his husband to his senses than John was having.

Whatever had happened, the fact was, he was away for over six weeks, by which time Parthalan was convinced his Papa was never, ever, coming home. When he finally returned, painfully thin yet again, pale and ill-looking, the distraught reaction from his son did indeed shock Sherlock to the core. Yet John didn't know if he would do it all over again, once the memory faded. So he took a drastic and, some would say cruel but deserved, move. That body-blow came, when, the morning after his return, John angrily stuffed Parthalan's sodden bed-sheets into Sherlock's hands.

Sherlock knew that sharp, yellow smell. It was the smell of his childhood nights after days when Jonathon Lang had sex with him. It was the reason he stole the dog bed from the breeder the other side of Winsley, where they had got Redbeard. It was why he had no sheets on his bed at the Manor any more. Why he didn't leave his room. Why his room looked like a jail cell. Why he spent more time on planning suicide than he did on planning his future.

Sherlock went white and frozen, struggling for breath, his fingers locked grasping the sheet, and John had to support him from collapsing onto the floor of 221B.

John cried. Sherlock did not. Sherlock ooked as if he had been punched in the stomach by his husband.

Sherlock has not relapsed or disappeared since. But it hasn't been long.

.............

He made things worse by telling John that "this was why children were a bad idea". He'd never said that, not since the day they brought Parthalan back from the court. And if he had to say it, it would have been very much better, had he checked to see that his own son was not in earshot when he did so......

John was incandescent with rage. He rang Tamara.

He never rang Tamara, not in the five years since Parthalan was born. She'd looked in and chatted with them, but he'd never called her for help. He did so now and she turned up bearing presents for the children and spoke, at great length, with all three of Sherlock, John and Parthalan. She was friendly and supportive to all three of them, and Parthalan certainly looked a little less traumatised once she had sat with him for an hour, a little less like a beaten puppy, but her supportive talk to Sherlock left him quiet and withdrawn.

John suspected that she had finally shown her claws to him, and warned him bluntly about the consequences of continuing to slide into his own troubles without considering the impact on other lives. Notwithstanding his apparent contrition, and his long and emotional apology to Parthalan, John has not forgiven him yet. Parthalan will not talk about it, but is now even less willing to leave for Sussex each week and allow Sherlock to go out of his sight.

John gets used to washing his son's bed clothes.

John is grateful that Ishbel is too young to understand any of this.

.................

John elected to leave the Eton battle for later. After all, Parthalan wouldn't go there until he was thirteen and perhaps that was old enough. It was a long way off.

It was the idea of him going off to board at prep school at seven that was the immediate crisis. They needed to decide soon and without bloodshed, if possible. John was convinced it would be disastrous for the boy.

Matters came to a head a few days later. Sherlock was browsing through various glossy brochures for boarding preps, when John strode in and slapped a brochure of his own on top. Sherlock frowned.

'What is this, John?'

'Its a school prospectus. A school in London. One that sends loads of pupils on to Eton. And it's not boarding.'

Sherlock peered at the glossy cover.

'Surrey House'. It's not one of the better known feeders. Are you sure that...

He was stopped in his tracks by John throwing a printout into his lap.

'There are the figures. I'm surprised you two have overlooked it. Oodles of pupils going on to Eton. And it's in Chelsea. Hideously expensive and the poor little scrap is hardly going to get a glimpse of real life, but I guess that's what you're paying for, yeah?'

Sherlock grunted, but consented to start reading, only pausing to put on his reading glasses which inconveniently he'd started to require but which fortunately John found rather attractive on him. After ten minutes, he put down the booklet and removed his glasses, chewing thoughtfully on one arm of them.

John might have a point. But it didn't make sense. Why would John want to be looking at London day schools, when John and the children were down at the Sussex cottage four nights a week and the children's formal education had been based exclusively down there to date?

So he asked just that question.

John sat down heavily in his chair. And rubbed his hand. Sherlock knew that meant not quite a tremor, but perhaps the start of the build-up to it. Stressed, then. He's been thinking about this for a while, but hasn't been looking forward to it.

'Sherlock'

'John.'

' I think it's time I was back in London.'

'You do? Full time?'

'Yeah. Not straight away, but yeah. I do.'

'Im delighted but why? Because...?'

'Because I don't want Parthalan to go to boarding school and we won't be able to miss days of the week by splitting between two places once he starts school.'

'That's not true, John. I happen to know the Education Act allows for educating children otherwise than at school.'

'Yeah. Well. You haven't read it well enough. You can choose, Sherlock, to send them to school or to home school. That's your right. But you can't do a halfway house. It doesn't work like that. You choose. Either he attends school full time or he's educated at home full time. That's the way it works. Otherwise they can't work out who's responsible for what and who's failing the child if they don't know...ahh...say..that the Earth goes round the Sun?'

'Yes, thank you John. Well then, home education. I'll teach him.'

'You can't teach him. I mean. You could, of course you could, but you don't have time. How would you fit in cases with a full school day? And you'd only teach him stuff you were interested in, you know you would? He'd end up with a degree level knowledge of human anatomy, chemistry and 247 types of fag ash, and nothing about Shakespeare.'

John didn't even mention the possibility of getting in outside tutors to fill the gap. Obviously. And anyway, he wanted Parthalan at school for other reasons.

'And the problem is...The problem is, Sherlock, that he needs to know the other stuff as well. Especially if he's going to do common entrance and go to Eton. Added to which, he needs the social interaction.'

'What do you mean, social interaction? he gets huge amounts of interaction from you and from me? And he goes to nursery.'

'Not just from you and me. He needs to try to make friends. He's not doing that at nursery, not at all, Sherlock. His teachers are concerned. And most of the time he has with others, is all with adults and he ignores all of them. He ignores me too, most of the time, if I'm really honest, I'm more of a glorified house-elf to him, though obviously with more clothes. The only person he ever really interacts with is you. And that's not healthy, Sherlock, especially as he's only seeing you three days a week. You need to play a bigger role in encouraging him to unwind himself a little from you and to look outwardly a bit more. The way he is now, Sherlock, it's not.....well....quite right, is it?'

John bit his lip and cast a glance across at his husband. This conversation had been brewing for a while. Sherlock knew John was uncomfortable with Parthalan's levels of social interaction, but had been studiously avoiding the topic for as long as possible.

.............

Sherlock looked dark.

'Not....quite right? Do go on. Please explain. Are you suggesting that there's something wrong with our son, John?'

'No. No. Not exactly.'

'Good. Because he behaves not unlike how I behaved at that age.'

John looked at him now, his heart in his mouth.

'Yeah, yeah. I know Sherlock. And less than a year before that age, what did you go through? Your eldest brother died. I doubt you were like that before it happened?'

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably.

'I don't know how you know about that? I've never mentioned Sherry to you?'

'I don't, not really. Mycroft just mentioned it after the court hearing for Parthalan. He was explaining why he took your father's wishes so seriously, when it came to Parthalan's future. He didn't say what happened, just that Sherrinford had died.'

'I'm surprised he mentioned it. It isn't mentioned, it just isn't, John.'

John frowned.

'Why, Sherlock? I can see with your parents, but why not you and Mycroft?'

'Because we were there , John. He drowned and we saw it happen. I nearly drowned too, Mycroft saved me, but he couldn't save Sherry as well. Which is why I'm so surprised it was Mycroft who told you.'

'So am I, now you tell me that. How did it happen? Do you feel able to say?'

'I can tell you what I know, although I was small and it happened very quickly. We were playing pirates at the Manor. On the houseboat. Sherry was annoyed at me and he pushed me in. I grabbed at him as I fell and he was unbalanced. Once he was in the water, his pirate boots and costume weighed him down.

‘Mycroft doesn't know that Sherry pushed me in. And I don't want him to know. From what he said, I think he believes that I just fell in and maybe Sherry ran to try and help me, then slipped.

‘It wasn't like that.

‘Anyway. Mycroft blames himself for Sherry's death, which is madness. So we don't speak about it and it's shut away. Mummy's and Mycroft's way.

................

John whistled slowly.

'This was the houseboat that Mycroft found you OD'd on, whilst I was captive after the helicopter crash?'

'The very same.'

'God. Poor bloody man. I wish you'd chosen somewhere else to try to top yourself, Sherlock, that must have been bloody horrific for him?'

'You're right, although to be fair, I was neither thinking straight nor in a charitable mood with Mycroft, since he had, if you recall, John, given up on getting you out of there and left you to die and worse, at the hands of your captors?'

John sighed.

'Yeah. Fair point. Okay. Let's not go there. '

..............

They did not get further with the discussion. John was coping better, with the passage of time, with thinking back to those days, so close to death for both of them, and his own terrible injuries both from the chopper being brought down and his subsequent rape ordeal, but it was still not a topic he chose to talk about readily.

Quite a few discussions ended like that, even without that specific distressing subject matter, these days. Hanging in the air, unresolved. One man brittle and defensive. The other, trying to keep the show on the road, but aware that pressure was a risky approach. Neither knowing how better to handle the discussions.

If they'd had any sense they would have got Tamara more involved, earlier than they did. When they did finally do so, it was in circumstances which made progress a lot more difficult.

The events that prompted that intervention were not far off, yet completely unexpected to these two.


	4. The Power of the Departed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To Spain. Things become very heated, and not just the weather.....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon character death (not Sherlock, John or Mycroft).  
> Some smut. Not especially joyful smut. In fact, not joyful at all.

Mycroft got the call to advise him of the catastrophic events involving Mary aka Anya, while he was in a particularly close-fought fencing match with his brother.

Sherlock was winning, just; but Mycroft would have taken the call anyway. Mycroft Holmes' phone was only switched off for one day a year, the day he visited Sherry's grave at the Manor. Even then there was a driver parked up who was in constant contact with Anthea. Mycroft was of such minor position in the nation's governance, that even on his one full day off a year was not permitted to be completely off-line.

One might wonder what the lives of major position holders looked like, except there were none above to find. Like the surgeons or Oxford Dons who are referred to as Mr, not Doctor, there is clear snobbery in the deliberate use of minimising terms for the more senior levels in the profession of diplomacy and international spookery.

.............

She wasn't dead, yet.

But she was going to be.

It was predictable, with certainty. The direct traumatic injuries from the crash were catastrophic, but possibly survivable, if life-changing. But it was the burns from the fire afterwards....Burns of that severity were so cruel, so taunting like that, not killing straight away, whilst everyone knew that was what was going to happen, once the figures got above a certain percentage and skin depth. Like radiation poisoning, cruel, slow and inevitable.

Mycroft needed to get there fast. He was legally responsible for the child, her welfare and her education, if anything happened to Anya. Now it had, this girl was left an orphan and more than that, an orphan who would be of interest to anyone looking for a symbolic figurehead for a successor organisation to that of Moriarty. Or worse, a target for those who wanted to finish the job they had started with her mother. The fact they hadn't done it today, didn't mean they didn't intend to do so.

Mycroft was aware, also, that this could be a trap to draw him and possibly Sherlock in, to use the girl as bait. He made some calls. No point in risking danger by following expected routes and locations. Anya was quietly moved. It wouldn't make any difference to her survival, after all. And the new place was more secure and better equipped.

Rebecca-Rachel was moved too. She was in a safe house, being fed spicy meatballs and patatas bravas by several M16 staff, close guarding her until it was known who or what had killed her mother and watching "Ratatouille" on a DVD. She had been told about her mother in the last few hours and she had wept bitterly. The laughing dark, almost black eyes now looked lonely and scared, but the fear was fronted with bravery and calm. Her father's daughter as well as her mother's, this one. 

She was placed with a short-term foster family, that same day. The father of the household was an officer in the Spanish secret service, which meant he officially worked in Malaga airport arranging tourist repatriations, as a cover for his actual job. They were a kind family, but she knew she wouldn't be there long. She had been told that "London" were coming for her. She had no idea what that meant and assumed that the a British Government offered this service to all orphans abroad.

And they probably do help. But they don't normally actually send The Government in person?

................

What about John? The loyal husband who walked away, divorced his wife and ran off with a "junkie detective", to use CAM’s charming turn of phrase?

Mycroft relayed the news about "Mary" to Sherlock in brief quiet stark statements and his brother's face drained entirely of blood. Just as when married to John, Mary was neutralised as a threat when she was safe, happy and looked after, even if it was all a façade to match Leinster Gardens; when she was divorced and in exile she was similarly neutralised when she was safe and happy with Rebecca-Rachel and looked after, this time by Six.

Dead, especially murdered, she was perhaps at her most dangerous to Sherlock. Because then, she was a danger to his heart. John was a romantic, and the sainthood of the departed was an impossible enemy. John knew how to turn mourning into an art form. He'd done it before.

Mycroft knew that this whole "Mary" thing was something that John had firmly shut into a box, closed and buried, then he built his entire life with Sherlock on top of its grave. And that Sherlock had mutely and helplessly conspired in the construction of that edifice.

Now it looked as if the two men would have to both face Mary again and to bury her, for real this time, together. He wondered how they would cope with that, even without fully knowing about the level of insecurity his brother contended with, about John's bisexuality and even more about the fact of John having only left Mary once the baby was found not to be his.

Mycroft did not know, for example, about Sherlock's jealousy at smelling perfume on his husband's clothes. He did not know (believing his brother to be not only submissive in his sexual role, but also a compulsive bottom in these matters) that, at least a few times a year, Sherlock was to be found fucking his husband into the bedsprings in a blatantly physical and possessive, almost violent manner; rough, certainly, reminding John that he was no soft focus stand-in for his former female lovers.

He did not know that Sherlock's subconscious was obsessed with a counterfactual version of The History of John Watson. If the baby had been John's. If Mary hadn't been at CAM’s office. If.....

.............

There had been less of the "working his way through it" via Sherlock topping in aggressive bouts of sex perhaps not surprisingly, since the traumatic events after John's helicopter crash; none at all in the first two years after, but gradually they had chosen to re-introduce it as an occasional spice to the relationship.

Though it had to be said, the first occasion they did so, was excruciatingly gruelling for both parties.

John had insisted it was fine, Sherlock was gentle and slow with his preparations and more than generous with the fingers and the lube; but it was a psychological not a physical issue they were colliding with here and neither of them could adequately prepare for the moment until it happened; the minute Sherlock slid slowly and carefully into John, John panicked completely and vomited over the side of the bed.

Sherlock tried to be supportive but had been quietly devastated and couldn't completely hide it. It was weeks before they'd tried again.

Sherlock was completely dreading re-opening the AGRA box.

............

He tried not to give any of that away. Especially not to Mycroft.

'Was it an accident? Or did any of her old friends catch up with her?'

'We don't know yet and it may prove hard to tell for sure since the car is crushed beyond belief. I've got agents out examining the scene now and they are also questioning the locals who may have seen something. The police are assuming it was an accident, a tyre blow-out. Why wouldn't they? They're not looking closely and I'd rather like to keep it that way.

‘My view? Personally, where that woman is concerned, I'd be monumentally sceptical that anything that harms her is likely to have been an accident.'

Mycroft looked at Sherlock.

'What about John, Sherlock? Do you think he will want to see her?'

'I don't know. Possibly. Yes. Probably. I'm trying him now. More to the point, Mycroft, the child wasn't in the car, was she? And you're her legal joint guardian? What are you going to do now about the child, about Rebecca?'

...................

Before Mycroft could hazard an answer, John finally picked up at the other end. Mycroft went and stood by the window as Sherlock spoke quickly and quietly. There were some long silences in the conversation, Mycroft could tell. Sherlock was twisting the curl at the nape of his neck into a tight knot.

The conversation ended.

At last, Sherlock walked over to join him, brushing his sweat soaked hair back from his face.

'He wants to come. Kirsty has agreed to extra hours to look after the children. I'm going with him, with you.'

Mycroft glanced at his brother, and thought Sherlock looked agitated already. He reached across and gently brushed back an errant curl from his brother's brow.

'Courage, mon frère. Be calm. All will be well.'

Sherlock looked at him with a kind of quiet desperation. They both knew that meaningless platitudes would not affect the cards they had been dealt. He felt his options running out and with that feeling came the familiar hateful but inevitable urge to run, to hide, to score.

............

They were high over a parched, arid landscape.

The small plane juddered in turbulence, as it began to descend towards the airport. Sherlock, seated next to John in the front seats of the small jet, stretched out a long slim leg and glanced across to his husband. John's face was set, lines of tension marring the sandy grey softness. He looked smaller, shrunken into himself. Shut off from Sherlock.

Sherlock felt a stab of - what was it? Empathy? Really? Not usually his area and certainly not where Mary was concerned. Where Anya, he should say, was concerned. Maybe it was jealousy, plain and simple?

Anya was entitled to nothing of John, nothing and yet here they were, chasing across Europe to sit by the bedside of a dying woman. 

...............

He took hold of John's left hand, his good hand, the hand not damaged by the chopper crash and stroked along its precious bones and veins. John's hand was small, neat and strong, like the rest of him. A squeeze.

John opened his eyes a little and regarded Sherlock. Narrow navy jewels in his tired face. He tried to smile a little, but failed. They had not been talking much since Sherlock was dragged back from Dorset. And they certainly hadn't been sleeping together.

Which meant, for both of them, little sleep and a lot of unresolved frustration and sexual tension. John jacked off a lot, mostly in the shower. He wasn't sure about Sherlock, he'd always seemed less troubled by his bodily urges, his transport, unless there was John there to effortlessly stimulate him into arousal. For Sherlock, sex was less of a normal healthy activity and more of an outward manifestation of an inner need and longing, specific to John.

John's frequent masturbation was quiet and bitter; he felt no better, once he was spent and watching his miserable ejaculate circling and disappearing down the shower plughole, than he'd felt before he started. If anything, he just felt hollow and brittle. It was a far cry from their lovemaking together, which had always been something that had held them tightly bonded together, whatever the world had thrown at them. Not now.

Until John understood why Sherlock had gone and why for so bloody long, there was a small part of John that was hating Sherlock, and he couldn't screw a man he held any hate for.

...............

As the weeks went by and John made no move to re-establish a physical relationship, Sherlock had become more and more unreasonable, histrionics were commonplace and barbed remarks routine. John wondered if Sherlock thought he was getting his oats elsewhere, rather than actually stopping to think, that John might just actually want some kind of explanation, about what the fuck Sherlock himself had been up to.

They were drifting dangerously apart, on a tide of "not talking".

................

Even Mrs Hudson had mentioned that there was an "atmosphere" in the place. She had stopped John on the stairs, to have "a little word". John had contained himself from blowing up at her. None of this was her fault, after all. He took a deep breath, and restricted himself to reminding Mrs H, that it really wasn't long since Sherlock had chosen to up and leave both of his children and his husband without a word and go totally AWOL for six weeks, hundreds of miles away, with them not knowing if he was alive or dead.

She had nodded sadly and told him that he was quite right to be upset.

'Though I expect, you know, John, that there's something, some reason we don't know, why he did it? There'll be a reason, with him, with his funny old head, you know that. We just don't know what it is, yet? It'll come out, sure enough, when he's ready to tell us.'

John felt like screaming and stamping his feet and telling her that unfortunately, that didn't really work like that, for children who didn't know whether their Papa was ever going to come home; nor indeed, for John Watson, who had gone through this too many times before and had enough of that shit, thank you very much.

And that Sherlock needed to do better than this, a lot better.....better than John simply waiting patiently like a dodgy-armed sandy-haired Stepford Wife, until Sherlock might finally deign to be ready to share his secrets. How bad would he wait for things to get, before he did so? Would it be too late to save their marriage?

................

The plane touched down. They collected their meagre bags, which spoke silently of People Not Staying Long, and a portly man with a sign saying 'HOLMES' signalled for them to follow him. Everything organised, the way all smoothed ahead of them, of course, the Mycroft Holmes way of doing things. It worked with administrative niceties and comforts, but less so with people and their emotions.

They were soon approaching the hospital. It was modern and square and not the sort of architecture one would choose as the place of one's death. This wasn't Petra by dawn light, or the Mycenean Lion Gate at high noon, or the Taj Mahal at sunset. This was calm efficient and clinical.

Sherlock seemed preoccupied and cut off from John, staring out of the window. John was thin lipped and jumpy. Mycroft, regarding them both glumly, consulted his phone, and gave the driver directions. None of them spoke.

................

When they arrived, striding into the bright and clean main reception lobby, they were met by a grim-faced man with a thick clipboard and the expression of someone who was used to giving out only bad news. He took them to one side and warned them that Anya was sedated heavily by the painkillers necessary for the burns and that she might not be able to say anything. In fact, it was highly unlikely. And that there was, of course, no possibility of recovery.

However, he said, she would "no doubt have the potential to draw comfort from the presence of friends and family". The Holmes brothers shifted uncomfortably at that description. It didn't match any of them. She'd cheated on one, tried to murder a second and was regarded as a hostile agent by the third.

..........

After endless noisy corridors, the room where she lay was quiet and subdued. The blinds were drawn; the only lights were from monitors; the only sound from their footsteps and the ventilator keeping Anya breathing.

They wouldn't have recognised her, had her identity not been writ large on all the notes and paperwork. She was heavily, almost comically covered in bandages, over her entire body and arms and most of her head. Only a small gap remained for her face, and that too, was burned badly. Blisters wept from even this less affected area. She'd always liked to wear clothing that showed off her slim, feminine figure. Didn't like to cover up, not even in winter. John always had to nag her, always putting a cardigan or jacket in the car, knowing she'd be shivering later.

Her face had been so beautiful, especially her smile. John didn't mind about the burns, not a bit. But he minded that she couldn't smile any more, just once.

And he minded, a lot, much more than he thought, that she was dying.

John swallowed hard. He started to shake. Then he felt an arm around him, supporting him and moving him bodily to the chair next to Anya's bed. Sherlock's arm. Not that John could call her Anya, any more than he could call Rebecca any other name. This woman was Mary to him and always would be. He married her as Mary and as Mary she would stay. Would die, now.

Sherlock drew back now, frowning; knowing he had to give John privacy. Sherlock hated leaving John in her presence, even now, even with her in that state, he just bloody hated it. Still jealous, still insecure, even of a dying woman, and he knew that made him less of a good man than he hoped to have been, but he could not resist the force of his feelings. So he did not try.

But Mycroft's look brooked no argument and silently he conceded. They left, and stood outside in the corridor, both longing for a smoke; both running thorough in their minds the potential implications of the scene playing out within.

..............

Inside the room, John, the version that was the buttoned-up repressed man he'd once been, was now fully in evidence.

He got up and walked slowly around the bed.

He stood at parade rest, regarding the swaddled shape in the bed.

He cleared his throat, and sniffed. Paced again.

Then finally, he took the medical notes from the end of the bed and started to read.  
It didn't last for long. His eyes blurred. He placed the notes back onto their clip. He covered his face with his hands and wept silently, the only outward sign being his shoulders jerking and trembling as he mutely screamed. Not for the first time, he wished he didn't understand these notes as well as he did. He'd come here with faint hope. Now, that hope, all of it, was gone.

After long minutes, he nodded to himself, wiped his eyes and took a bandaged hand, holding it. He looked at the eyes, the once beautiful and glittering eyes, the eyes he had looked into the day that he married her. Married her and finally realised, in that first dance, the depth of Sherlock's feelings for him. Now those eyes of the woman he'd chosen in his grief and depression at Sherlock's loss were glazed and dulled by the pain and the drugs to stop it.

He hadn't seen her since the day he walked away from her and her child. He didn't think their reunion would happen and if it was to happen, he didn't ever, ever think it would be like this.

...............

He found himself speaking. He hadn't known what he would say, but once he opened his mouth the words just came tumbling out, un-rehearsed, unedited and honest.

‘You were wrong, Mary. So wrong. You said, back then, you said I knew what you were like and I married you.

‘I didn't. I married you as an escape from myself, as the escape from the compulsion I have to seek out danger, to save others and I loved you for offering that to me, because it saved my life. I thought I found someone in you, who didn't chase danger, someone normal, someone I didn't have to save. Someone who maybe could save me without the need for the risk and the heartache and the pain. Someone who would save the money-off coupons for the shopping and make sure everyone had a party bag at the kids' parties. Make me watch property programmes and replace a perfectly functional kitchen with a new shiny one.

‘But you did need saving, don't you, in the end, just like...him. Like Sherlock. And I've failed you, I haven't saved you. I tried, I made them spare you, then, but I left it to others to do it and now they've failed you. And now, I will...well....yeah, I will have to live with the fact that if I had stayed with you, you might not be dying and Rebecca might still have her mum and I might have been her Dad. I don't know if I can forgive myself for that and you won't be able to tell me if you forgive me, which is worse.

‘I left you, Mary and I fell in love with him. Hopelessly, endlessly in love. Although I probably was always in love with him, wasn't I and you knew that, really, didn't you? I was helpless standing before him, it's just how it is with people and him, I'm not alone, I know I'm not, there's whole rooms full of people who pine and lust after Sherlock; the only difference was that, for some unknown reason, he chose to love me back and not all those others.

‘I don't think you resented that. You went without argument, in the end, with dignity. I'm grateful for that, Mary. That you didn't drag things out, because we had enough fucking struggle to make a life together, even without that. And we're still struggling. He's been through so much, Mary. You're alike, like that.

..................

‘I am the lucky one here, Mary, out of all of us. Mycroft, Sherlock, you, me. I got what I wanted, didn't I, at a price. And you, you're paying a high price now, the highest. I think you had tried to leave that life behind, as a spy, as a mercenary. But like prostitution, like drugs and I know all about that second one, of course, it's beguiling and addictive, isn't it and financially rewarding and I don't know if you were getting embroiled again, but all I can say is, I'm sorry, Mary and I forgive you for all of it. Everything. Being the sniper at the pool, kidnapping those school kids....... shooting Sherlock......lying to me. All of it.

‘Because I know now, I understand these things and something made you start down that road, Mary, something awful or cruel, just like something terrible made Sherlock fall into his dangers and misery and whatever that thing was, whatever your demon was, it was long ago, wasn't it, when you were too young to be the one to blame. Something came and got you and they made you who you are. Who you became. What you turned into.

‘Mycroft thinks this was sabotage, you know? I can tell. He thinks they caught up with you, that they murdered you. I don't know and frankly I no longer care, how and why you are dying, only that you are.

‘I have kids now, Mary. Two. Sherlock's boy Parthalan, weird name I know, but that's the Holmes’s for you, isn't it and he is exquisite and unusual, an enigma, just like his Papa and I worry about them both, if I'm honest. And Ishbel. A daughter, Mary. She's like a little shiny apple, Mary, all cheery and welcoming and good. So, so good. She's just two and a half. You'd love her, I know you would.'

.............

He paused after the long, lonely soliloquy. The tears were flowing freely now, unchecked down his cheeks.

He could see the monitors becoming more agitated in the fluctuations in the readings.

Not long now then, he realised. She was visibly fading away in front of him. Maybe she had waited for someone, anyone, to come, to sit with her, be with her, in her final moments. He took Mary's other hand, also bandaged, in his. Time to say goodbye, now then, while there was still the chance.

'Rebecca will be looked after. You know, you know, Mary, we won't let her down. I promise you, Mary, your little girl will be okay. You don't need to worry.

‘Let her go, let all the worry about her go, let it all go now. It's time for you to stop struggling and fighting now, just rest and sleep easily. I know that you're tired now. Sleep, my darling. And know that I loved you, and I still love you. Sleep now, and rest.'

He leaned forward, and kissed her cheek.

.............

John rose then, once more and crossed Mary's hands in her lap. She looked quieter now, more peaceful, as the numbers on her monitor started to fall steadily.

He shook his head, and bit his lip, and wiped away the tears with a tissue from the box by her bed and then pressed the alarm buttons.

Staff pushed their way past the two brothers standing outside the door. There was, however, little they could do now. They maximised the pain relief, at John's nod. It shortened the process a little, probably and they all knew that, but meant a comfortable leave taking. He wiped his eyes, and stood against the wall, knuckles as white as the wall that supported him, while Sherlock and John stood at the doorway, tall, silent and sombre.

Less than five minutes later, Mary, or Anya, or Karly, or Sabine, or Inge, any of the names she used and now discarded; now freed of her burden of worry and - just perhaps - knowing that John had loved her, died peacefully of her injuries, in this small dull hospital in an anonymous town in dry, parched southern Spain. Mycroft Holmes identified the body as that of Anya Armstrong. Wheels, so to speak, were put into motion, to deal with the tiresome swathes of administration required for the death of someone with at least six fully-fledged former identities. The bureaucracy of the death of an assassin.

Mary's mortal remains, along with responsibility for the very much alive Rachel, passed smoothly to the British Government, under the terms of the high level agreement put in place at the time of her exile.

Now it just remained to work out what the hell was going to happen to the little girl.

..............

Mycroft had arranged rooms for them all at the nearest five-star hotel. He was going, he said, to deal with some administration. He wasn't back by dinner time, so John, who had been largely silent since they left the hospital and Sherlock, ordered room service and ate grilled fish and potato manchega croquettes with MTV buzzing quietly in the background. The food was delicious, but neither ate much.

After dinner, they sat on the balcony, drinking coffee, staring out at the twinkling lights of the town. John took a swig of Rioja, then sat back and folded his arms.

'Go on, then, deduce away.'

Sherlock looked surprised. He had hardly got a single word out of John since the hospital.

'You want to know what I said to her and you weren't in the room. But you think you know and you want to confirm it, to see if you are right. To see if your obvious jealousy has a basis in fact.'

John had got far too good at this over the past few years. It was becoming really quite inconvenient.

'Won't it upset you to talk about it so soon?'

'No. I'd like to. Carry on.'

................

It sounded like an order, and possibly, a sort of tiger-trap. Sherlock disliked forced deductions, they rarely ended well for either giver or receiver. He frowned. There seemed no avoiding it, and he supposed at least they were talking. Some nights since Brownsea, they hadn't even managed that. And they certainly hadn't been communicating non-verbally, even though a good hard fuck would probably have done them both a power of good.

'Very well. I think that you told her that you feel responsible, guilty even, for leaving her, despite the lies and the shooting and the things that she did. I think you think that she loved you and also felt that you might protect her. That she regretted agreeing to have Moriarty's child and hoped that she would get away with the deception so that you and she could bring her up as your child.

‘And I suspect, though I don't know, that you told her that you did love her and still love her and that you were sorry.'

'You were listening.'

'No. But it's what I would expect you to say and what I suspected and feared you might feel.'

‘Yeah, well. You're right. I said all of it. I'm sorry. About the...love bit....does it make me that bad?'

'Is it true, John? I know you did love her. Do you still?'

Sherlock lit a cigarette. He hadn't smoked since he returned from his time on Brownsea Island; he stank of cigarettes when he reappeared from that hiding place. He knew John hated him smoking. Screw him. He blew the smoke out widely, deliberately. Took another long delicious drag.

He leaned over the balcony, and then looked back at John, his eyes glittering and his expression inscrutable.

................

John's hand was clenching and unclenching. Sherlock didn't need to hear the answer, not now: the hand and the hesitation said it all, and he turned back towards the city lights, sick in heart and heavy in mind.

John answered, nonetheless. Speaking slowly and quietly, almost as though he was talking to himself, forgetting that Sherlock was even there.

'I think when you've loved someone, enough to want to marry them; enough to have kids with them, all that, even if it was on the rebound and you were mourning and they lied to you, well. No matter how bad things get, after, over the years; I don't think, you know, that, well; I don't think you ever stop loving them completely, I don't think you can, can you, otherwise what was all that about in the first place?'

Sherlock turned and gave a short, curt nod of acknowledgement. It was what he expected to hear and he absolutely fucking hated it. Could he never be everything to this man, as John was to him? John was his breath, his earth under his feet, his food and drink, his dreams. Would there always be little bits of John that belonged to his friends, to his work colleagues, to his past lovers, to his women, for pity's sake? Sherlock from the start offered John Watson the whole of himself, completely and he wanted the courtesy returned. Now.

He spat out the words.

‘I really wouldn't know, would I, John? Not really my area?'

And he moved back into the room, leaving John alone on the balcony. A while later, John heard a door softly click.

.........

When John finally re-entered the hotel room about an hour later, Sherlock was gone.

He walked slowly down to the hotel lobby, taking the stairs and finding the rhythm of his feet on the treads calming and found both Holmes brothers ensconced in the deserted lounge bar. Mycroft having shed his jacket and tie, was sitting back on a sofa with a large scotch, his brother seated at the grand piano in the corner, playing sonatas slowly and quietly, almost to himself. Only the bartender was present apart from these two. John frowned. He disliked intimate scenes between the Holmes brothers for a number of far too complex reasons.

There was a little too much of the serenade about this scene.

John didn't know if Sherlock and Mycroft had discussed Mary's final moments and John's admission. Mycroft rarely regarded him, John knew, with anything warmer than a narrow assessing gaze, even five years after John had appropriated and married his little brother. Tonight was no exception. That gaze fixed on him.

'I think you should take my brother up to bed, John.'

John nodded, slightly perturbed to hear any words about Sherlock and bed from Mycroft's lips....

'Look after him, please John.'

'I will.'

So Mycroft thinks this is a danger night, then, John thought. And he knows that I'm the cause. But he's not going to confront me, because he knows that will make things worse. Not now, anyway. It might come later, maybe? The vintage brandy and implied death threats. When he's got me alone, away from Sherlock...

John looked at Sherlock, who did not demur but mutely inclined his head, shut the piano lid quietly and rose to follow his husband. John then nodded at Mycroft, who raised his glass in acknowledgement, also nodding a "good night" and the pair headed for the lifts.

.........

When they reached the room, John expected to be given the cold shoulder to end all cold shoulders. It was three months, after all, since they had made love, since before Sherlock's Brownsea Island madness. And they were further apart than ever, now.

In truth, John yearned desperately for the slide of Sherlock's body on his sweat-slick skin, the sharp intake of breath when another's hand grasped his prick and the velvet tightness of his own cock gripped by Sherlock's very inner core, as he plundered him with passion and, sometimes, considerable force.

But it had been so long and he expected no change soon.

Yet, no sooner had he undressed, down to his red silk boxers and slid into the bedclothes, Sherlock, still fully dressed, climbed onto the bed and, pulling away the covers, pushed John up roughly against the headboard and attacked his lips, forcing his tongue between then, bruising and biting, his hands holding John's head in a vice grip so that he could execute the assault of kisses unhindered.

'Hey, slow down....Sherlock?'

John was not unwilling to resume relations at some point, far from unwilling, but he felt like this was weird, it was all wrong, that he was just a vessel that Sherlock wasn't even really seeing right now. Sherlock's eyes were blazing and his breath smelt of fine whisky and intense, dangerous, sexual need. He suddenly dropped away from John, shedding all of his own clothes, ripping them off. Buttons flew. John could see that he was rock hard, already. He was thinner than he'd ever been and John could count his ribs, then looking down to the soft thin line of hair that led from his navel down to his long and currently very erect and straining prick.

'Come on then, John. Come on. Fuck me. I'm not a woman, obviously, I can't ever really be that, Johnny, but you know, I'm here, I'm available. Close your eyes. Maybe if I work myself open for you John, you can pretend? Look, there go my fingers, working that pussy for you!

‘I know, I'll get a padded bra, stuff it with something. Something for you to clutch at. Shall I bind my prick away? Would that be better, John? Or do you need me to go the whole nine yards and book myself in for bottom surgery? Would that help, John? Help you to stop loving women and only love me? Would it? They'd do a lovely job, you'd hardly know, it'd be just like old times, MATE.'

John was looking on in horror now, at this display. Of the self-loathing version of Sherlock re-emerging, after all this time.

'I make quite a good woman, John, if you drink enough, you like a drink, don't you, runs in the family a bit and use your imagination. I can do the make-up and the walk. I'll make you feel good, you know I will.

‘Love you long time real good, daddy.'

Sherlock now walked over to John with glazed eyes in an exaggerated sashay, a parody of feminine movement and started pulling down his boxers, taking John's limp cock between his lips, sucking and tugging on it, rubbing and playing with his balls, hollowing his cheeks to take in John's considerable length and girth, and moving his arm around John's backside to run his thumb around John's entrance.

It didn't take long for John to get hard, not with that kind of stuff going on, despite his deep misgivings. Sherlock rarely gave blowjobs, even now, because of the associations it held with being choked by his abuser and so John couldn't remember the last one, which just increased his arousal but also his concern.

................

John knew this was wrong, that Sherlock was distressed and unstable; that he should stop it, at least until they had slept on the day's tragedy and were able to talk with some perspective.

Instead of that, being miserable, lonely and too long without any of this, he groaned and jerked uncontrollably in Sherlock's fingers and Sherlock rammed a long bony finger right up him and John, furious and turned on in equal degree, shouted out angrily and came explosively, come shooting up to his chin.

It should have been as wonderful resumption of sexual relations between the husbands. It was not. It was as lonely and miserable an experience as the solo wanks in the shower at 221B.

No, that wasn't true. It was worse. Much worse.

Sherlock didn't seem interested in his own arousal, his body shaking and his face grim. Once John was spent, Sherlock immediately got up from the bed like an hourly rent boy from the London streets and returned naked to the balcony, smoking once more. John watched the outline of his long, graceful naked back, staring silently at his fucked-up husband, as tears worked their way out from his eyes.

Sherlock did not return to bed. At length, hours later, the tears having dried to bitter sand on his face, John was overtaken by exhaustion from the day's events and the sandman claimed him in fitful and unhappy sleep.

......

The next morning, when he woke, Sherlock was gone. John buried his head in the pillow and swore.

Then he turned over and picked up his phone. There was nothing from Sherlock, but there was a voicemail from Mycroft, telling him that Sherlock had left the hotel at 5.30 am and was currently being tailed by his agents on a "non-intervention" basis, but that he had begun walking up into the hills behind the town and that should he reach any potentially hazardous rock formations or places with significant drops, the team would be going in and forcibly removing him.

And that Mycroft hoped that words had not been exchanged between John and Sherlock since they parted last night.

John buried his head in his hands. All this and they hadn't even discussed Rebecca-Rachel yet? And he was desperately missing the children, back at home. Parthalan especially had been distraught at them going away, especially at short notice. He was difficult to console or reassure on anything, these days.

He trusted Mycroft to stop Sherlock doing anything suicidal.

He didn't trust Mycroft in any other respect, because Mycroft didn't trust John to put Sherlock first, not any more.

And that meant that now the gloves were off.


	5. "Do not eat of the bitter fruit"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Sherlock's bizarre sexual behaviour the previous night, John awakes to find him gone, and a message from Mycroft that his men are tailing Sherlock who has gone up into the hills above the Spanish town. 
> 
> Mycroft decides to follow Sherlock. He will regret doing so.....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter are at the end, to avoid spoilers.

Mycroft Holmes climbed higher into the hills above the town, towards the speck in the distance on the rocky outcrop, that he had been informed was his brother. Sherlock was on a rocky ledge, which was of some concern, but well back from the edge and, according to the M16 spotters, he was sitting motionless, his back against a rock.

Puffing from the unaccustomed exertion, since he was not fat, but not fit either, and of course middle age had its downside; tripping over the exposed roots of the sparse vegetation, Mycroft, carrying his discarded suit jacket but still in waistcoat and suit trousers, as well as highly unsuitable Oxford brogues, took well over half an hour to reach the lofty eyrie. The early morning cool mist was being replaced by the usual day's scorching sun and he wiped his brow constantly with a voluminous spotted handkerchief. Legwork. But for once, just like back in Serbia, this was legwork that only he could do for his brother.

Once he drew close, he dismissed the agents, pausing only to acquire some bottles of water. He tersely told them to return to the town and their standby points. This was private family business now.

............

Sherlock didn't appear to have registered the fact of anyone approaching, but he must have; since as Mycroft crunched across the gravelly flat rock, carrying his suit jacket, he opened one eye lazily and muttered:

'Should do this more often, brother mine? Excellent cardiovascular workout, assuming you do not actually expire half way up. I hope you brought a doughnut to nibble to sustain yourself. Perhaps consider a more suitable outfit for hiking next time. You look to have melted to a grease spot.'

Mycroft sighed and sat down heavily, slumped next to his brother. It was only then that he noticed that Sherlock was wearing a close-fitting T-shirt, jogging bottoms and trainers, much more suitable attire. Mycroft knew if he'd worn something like that he'd look like a sack of potatoes. His brother....did not look like a sack of potatoes. 

Sherlock looked tired but there was a glitter in his eye. Something was on his mind. What was it? 

'Yes, quite, Sherlock. Quite. I could quite easily find other, greatly more rewarding things to do with my time than follow you on wild goose chases up moderately steep Spanish mountains, you know. Quite undesirable. Would you care to tell me why all this melodrama is necessary?'

...............

'I wanted to see if you would come.'

Mycroft looked puzzled.

'Why? You could have sat with me in the hotel?'

Sherlock looked at him then. Waved a hand around, gesturing at the deserted hillside, the people in the town below like so many ants scurrying around. Twenty minutes, before anyone else would get up here, even if they left now.

There were too many people. Too many eyes, down there, then. He didn't say anything for some long moments and seemed miles away.  
At last he spoke.

'Too......public.'

Mycroft started to feel a little uncomfortable.

'And that is important, then, privacy? Because you want to talk to me about something, Sherlock? Something about John? About John and Mary, perhaps? Or about you?'

'Not tell you, Myc. Not tell you. Give you.'

And Sherlock moved quickly, then. Quicker than Mycroft could react, or protest.

..............

Once he reached Mycroft, time went awry, and everything seemed like it was happening in slow motion, though it was probably just plain slow.

Sherlock's hand cupped behind Mycroft's head, long fingers carding through his brother's fine soft auburn hair, drawing Mycroft's mouth to meet his own impossible lips, pressing onto them with an electric contact, that made the shell-shocked Mycroft close his eyes and swallow instinctively, his lips opening as he did so, allowing Sherlock access with his probing tongue, which explored, demanded and brought sensations of base illicit thrill to Mycroft's entire core. 

Sherlock's other arm drew his brother's long body in now; pale skin close to his own and pressed him down, down to lie on the blankets he appeared to have carried all the way up here. His bony weight on top of Mycroft, hard bones, hard body, hard maleness. His long elegant erection pressing, demanding and thrusting through the layers of their clothes, roughly against Mycroft's own cock, still painfully restricted in his ridiculous clothing.

Mycroft aware of his own body's response, the friction, the heat, the exquisite rise of his senses almost to delirium. And it happened so quickly. The cold tap of his body delivering nothing other than boiling hot, scalding steam. Burning. Scarring.

Mycroft was still in the midst of processing what was happening, utterly shocked by Sherlock's sudden advance. For a few long moments, the blinding flash of lust took him back to another time, his very first time, at Eton with Wasim, so extraordinary, new and powerful were the sensations, the chemicals coursing through him.

He could only look on, dazed, as that tongue demanded his own, those large hands started to explore further, these moans that Sherlock was uttering were now however met with his own, seemingly independent of his own volition and Mycroft's traitorous cock was harder, now, than even the rock they lay on. Sherlock thrusting at him and he meeting the challenge, matching his thrusts stroke for stroke. In danger of coming, here, still clothed.

He wept a tear or two at the exquisite sensation of a fantasy fulfilled.

..............

By the time he found any semblance of his senses returning to him, he was fully flat on his back, with Sherlock on top of him, grinding against him, and his younger brother's hand was right down Mycroft's trousers, just at the point of touching....there....and yes....then the long slim hand found its target, and Sherlock hissed loudly and wrapped his huge hand around Mycroft's cock, swooping and swiping with his fingers and using his thumb to smear the precome that dripped freely. And he nuzzled at Mycroft's shoulder and licked a long stripe which made his brother quiver and keen, and then suddenly bit him on the tender skin where pale freckled shoulder met pale vulnerable neck and then, of course, Mycroft gasped.

The fantasies he dreamed about Sherlock were only that, a fantasy. But what if someone makes your fantasy come true, one day, what do you do? What?

............

What Mycroft did do, then, at the bite, was to gasp, and look up at his wild-eyed brother, whose pupils were dilated and whose face was a panorama of desperation and flailing hunger and base sexual arousal..........and in a split second see instead a vastly different image flash across his vision.

The image of himself as Jonathan Lang and Sherlock as William.

Himself as abuser.

Himself as destroyer of his brother.

Taking what was offered by someone, who didn't know, had never known, where lines were meant to be drawn and who would do anything not to be rejected by someone, anyone, that he loved and trusted and needed. Mycroft Holmes that person, above all others.

At that moment, then; when put in the position to finally take what his unconscious had taunted him with for most of his life, the balloon was pricked; and Mycroft lost all illusions and fantasies concerning his brother. Instead of the overwhelming physical response of a few moments ago, he suddenly felt ashamed, disgusted and incredulous. The scales had fallen from his eyes, and all he felt now was shame: intense pain at the idea of Sherlock thinking he needed to do this.

His prick, so hard and wanting just moments ago, was now softening, even as Sherlock did his very best to force a response.

..............

'No. NO. I'm sorry. No, Sherlock. Stop this. Stop it NOW.'

Mycroft seemed to gain strength from his own horror and pushed his brother off him, causing him to fall to the rocky ground. Mycroft stumbled to his own feet and staggered away, dragging his clothes back together and squeezing away the bitter tears from under his eyelids.

Sherlock screamed back at him.  
'Mycroft. Come back. You want me, you always have, you know it, please just love me. Screw me. Please, My. Please.....don't leave me.'

Mycroft could hardly bear to look at Sherlock, but when he did, his brother's expression was unbearably desperate, without a trace of guilt or regret. Just misery, anger and disbelief at being thwarted, rejected, thrown down on the ground into the dry dirt.

Mycroft could not look longer. He turned his face away, straightened his clothing with shaking hands and waited for Sherlock to do likewise. He tried to make some sense of his hair, and mostly failed with the tremor in his limbs. He knew it would be harder to hide the marks on his face and neck; well nigh impossible to hide the low dread of guilt in his guts.

.............

Afterwards, as they sat once more against the rock and Sherlock ignored his own very persistent hard-on, though Mycroft was only too aware of it, wishing it away and to stop reminding him of their transgressions. They each smoked a cigarette and they talked, a little. Well. Not so much talked. Sherlock, in great gulping streams of speech, blurted out.

'He told he he loved her, Mycie. Not loved her, past tense, Love, present tense. Loved until she died. Never stopped.

‘I can't be her. I can't share him. I hate him for ever having loved her, for not having waited for me, for not having loved just me alone. I want all of him, all the time, the whole of it, and already I don't have that because of the children. And now there might be less.

‘I don't know what I can do, My? 

‘Is he going to bring Rebecca back, to add Moriarty's and Mary's daughter to our family? How can he do that, how can he even think of that? Mary shot me and was a sniper for both of us. She blew up old ladies. And Moriarty pulled her strings. How can I take on their kid, My? How, please God, tell me how?

‘Because I can see he's thinking about it. He feels responsible. Because he loved her. Loves her. And I can't compete with a fucking ghost, Mycie? And I hate him. God I hate him right now and I can't fucking bear it.'

Sherlock tried to cuddle up to Mycroft's side. Mycroft allowed the closeness but made no move to actively embrace him. That behaviour was no longer safe. That closeness no longer legitimate.

It felt like losing Sherry had done, in a way. And Mycroft felt inconsolable with sadness and grief.

.............

Sherlock just kept on and on. It was unbearable; pathetic beyond measure. He could see he wasn't getting anywhere, so he upped the stakes. As he spoke on, Mycroft's pain only increased.

'But you love me Myc. You've always loved me. You've always wanted me and understood me, no one else, not really. And you'll sort it out. For me, you have to Myc? You know why. You understand me. And I'll do anything in return, for you. I'll come to Eaton Square. We'll tell everyone that I'm working with you on Mary's case. John can stay at Baker Street or in Sussex. No one will know. No one need ever know. Just us.'

He saw that Mycroft was just looking ever grimmer, and ever more implacable. Final throw of the dice?

'And you can screw me, just, whenever. All the time. Use me like you do in your dreams. It's fine. I'll be your sub. I'll fulfil all your fantasies. I know what you like. You know you can bind me and beat me and fuck me and plug me and if you really want, Myc, you can collar me. 24/7. No limits, no safewords, no rules. Blood, breath plays marking, all fine. Just don't make me take on any more fucking children. Please. And don't make me lose John to the fucking sainted memory of Mary, please Myc?'

‘Please?'

.............

Mycroft felt utterly sick. Sick that Sherlock's extreme words were calculated by his own brother, to make him weak with desire. Collaring that pale, long neck. Keeping him with him, all the time. Protecting him, loving him, looking after him, having him, like a prince in a tower, shielded from all harm......and before today, before the reality was pressing down on him with its fleshy hardness, Sherlock would have been absolutely right. 

He would have done anything, given anything, for this. It wasn't all in his dreams. Not by a long way. Only the cold stark reality of his brothers body, his brother's penis thrusting at his own corrupt flesh, had brought him to his senses.

And so as he lost the guilt of desiring his brother at all, Mycroft gained a new guilt, that of knowing the desire had been all too real. Maybe that eventual step back he'd made, was enough to make Mycroft not a bad person. Mycroft wasn't sure it was. Most of all though, he felt a feeling of abiding sadness, that Sherlock was doing it all because he thought of it as "payment" for getting Mycroft to magically solve the problem of Rebecca's future.

That, when in a deep dark place, Sherlock still immediately thought of selling himself to buy himself out of trouble.

................

Where could their relationship go from here, their brotherly bond? It had been so precious and protective, and now, it might be ruined. Now, the comfort he wanted to offer his brother, the embrace, the cuddle, the stroke, all of it was beyond the line he had to draw. He looked at Sherlock, and shook his head.

'No, Sherlock. NO. All ....this....stops right here. Right now. You don't desire me. You don't want to be my sub and you don't love me, either, not in that way. You love John, you desire only John; you think this, THIS, will make me do the things you want, to save your relationship and your marriage, that somehow we could keep it secret?

‘But it won't, Sherlock. It never could. It would destroy us all completely. It could not be hidden, I will not have more of my life than is already secret, made so; we would both be destroyed by it. And so would John. He would find out and your relationship would be over.

‘And I have to say to you, that you are both the most important person in my life and the one I am most troubled about. And......that......I do not desire you, Sherlock. Not any longer. Not when faced with you and I being a reality. I did, I admit that I did, very much so, but - no more.

'I don't hate you for doing what you did, because I think you are unwell, Sherlock, really seriously unwell. I think the children and the prospect of Rebecca are putting too much mental strain on you and I must take my share of responsibility for that. And I think there's something else, the reason you went to Brownsea and you need to try to tell me or someone about that, because unless you do, we cannot help you deal with what that was.

‘You need to understand, I will help you always anyway, because I love you, Sherlock, as my little brother, and not because you offer me sexual favours. I'm not a drug dealer, you don't have to bend over to get what you need; anything I can offer you in return for sex or love, I will offer you without that. Please understand that. It applies not just to me but to all of us, who love you and care about you and worry about you.

‘I will never have sex with you, Sherlock. I would be grateful if for the foreseeable future, we meet only in the company of witnesses, or in public. Since I have found myself to be fallible in this regard, I would prefer that there was no risk of it happening. By your actions today and mine too, we have sacrificed the option of the physical contact we both found comfort and sustenance in, embraces, hugs, maybe forever. Maybe we will find it again, one day. I just don't know.

‘You are not the only person this impacts on, Sherlock. I find what happened just now acutely distressing. Please bear that in mind, when you consider your future actions. Do not make yourself a whore to me, to spare yourself being honest with John.'

And he walked away, leaving Sherlock slumped at the scene of their mutual disgrace.

He scrambled up, unwilling to be left alone here and stumbled after his brother.

.........

The descent down the mountain to the town was silent and brooding. Sherlock stumping along a few yards behind the stony faced Mycroft. The mood was not helped when, still some distance away, they saw that John, sitting drinking coffee in the town square, had sighted them from some way off and came out to meet them halfway.

As he approached, John looked from one sunburned face to the other. And his face froze.

'Is anyone going to tell me what the hell is going on here? Because YOU,’ pointing at Sherlock, ‘look angry and bitter, and YOU,’ pointing at Mycroft, ‘look...,’ he peered closely and looked aghast, ‘guilty as fuck?'

Mycroft turned to his brother.

'Sherlock, would you please go into the hotel now? John and I have a few matters to discuss.'

Sherlock looked shocked. Was Mycroft planning to talk to John about Rebecca right now? He walked away, scowling at all who dared to cross his path. It didn't cross his mind that Mycroft might tell John the truth.

.................

Mycroft and John sat at a cafe table in the shade of a wide parasol, and the waiter brought Mycroft an Orangina and a thick dark espresso. He drank from both, smoked a thin strong cigarette, then looked at John.

John had seen that look on this man before, just once, the day he found that Mycroft had been feeding information on Sherlock to Moriarty, just before the Fall. It was the guilty look of a man who has betrayed both himself and the man he has talking to.

Fear and fury wound its way through his body.

'How far?'

'Pardon?'

John breathed out.

'How far did it go? With Sherlock, Mycroft? He was behaving bizarrely last night, sexually, strangely even for him, so I can only guess from your wretched, guilty face and those fucking marks on your neck that, mmm, oh yeah, I get it, he offered you something that you've always coveted, didn't he? Up on the hill, when you'd sent all the Six agents away back down here? Don't give me any stories, I know him, Mycroft, I saw the look on his face last night. He was out of control.

‘So. Let's try again, shall we? How far. Did. You. Go?'

Mycroft now became acutely aware that John was generally, as a rule, armed. And had anger issues. And might not think that he had a lot to lose, except for the children? The children, ah yes. They might be Mycroft's saviour here? John surely wouldn't risk anything taking him away from them. So, probably safe from assassination for now. But he fingered his pistol thoughtfully nonetheless, though he knew if John decided to take him out he likely wouldn't get a chance to return fire.

Mycroft decided in his self disgust, that he was going to be honest and tell John, which he knew Sherlock didn't expect. It was for Sherlock to sort out this mess, not for Mycroft to hide it.

'You're right, John, yes, he did make advances.'

'Kissing?'

'That. Yes.'

'More...than kissing?'

Fist clenched. Twisted smile. Mycroft hoped his instinct about John's self-control was a good call.

'...Yes. More.'

'So, then, big brother. Did you fuck him, you piece of shit? Your own brother? My husband? Did you have him? Stick your dick in your own little brother's arse?'

Mycroft winced.

'No. NO.'

'Did he fuck you? Can't think that's likely but, you know, he has his moments.'

'No, of course not!' Mycroft was surprised to hear that any switching went on in that household. He filed the information away for later analysis.

'I don't think there's any of course here, Mycroft. He is your fucking BROTHER. We should not even be having this conversation because you two should not be wanting to kiss and FUCK EACH OTHER. OK?

‘Okay. So, kissing, but not fucking. Did he suck you off?'

'No.'

John looked down.

'And him? Did you suck him?'

'No. I stopped things going any further, John, than touching.'

'But you touched each other and he was hard?'

Mycroft had enough of this now. The words came out now in a rush. Let's get this ridiculously humiliating conversation finished. John had the middle class sensibility which would never understand this kind of thing, just as, while he participated in Dom activities, John didn't really "get" that world, either. Maybe it was a class background thing, maybe it was a public school thing. Either way, Watson didn't get it. Dull and predictable. He wondered how the man held his brother's interest.

'We both were, yes John. Erect. Hard. And he touched me, had his hands on me, on my penis. Both of our penises clothed, but frotting. And then, John, I actually looked at him and for the first time realised this was real... and it all fell away. I felt like a second Jonathan Lang, like an abuser, I realised that I didn't want it, any of it and also realised that he, frankly, was not mentally in charge of his actions.

‘And any desire I may have held for my brother dissolved into pathos and pity at that moment. Cold stone sober pity. But...I think, had I not called a halt, when I did, John, yes, I think he would have tried to do.....everything. And afterwards, he tried again, this time to buy my intervention over Rachel by offering to come to Eaton Square, to stay there for a period, as my sub, with the case as a cover.'

John's brow furrowed. This part he had not deduced. He was shocked.

'You mean, like a proper Dom/sub scene? Collar, everything? Fucking hellfire.'

'That's exactly what I mean. Collar, 24x7, blood and breath play too. Extreme end. There's nothing that I'm ashamed of, John, in any way, not about my.....lifestyle. But Sherlock's never sought that with me, any of it, not the sex and not the BDSM side. This isn't him, John. This isn't something he's wanted, and now gets the chance to take? He's turned down opportunities to do so before, you already know that. No, John. This is him ill and out of control.'

..............

John nodded and did the only thing he could with no gun, since he couldn't kill this man sitting here. He looked away at the shimmering heat hazed hills. Humiliated. Appalled. Incandescent with rage. Hurt beyond measure. Knowing, anyway, that if he had killed Mycroft he wouldn't make it out of this square, let alone to Malaga airport.

Mycroft looked at him. Read his thoughts. Just as he suspected. A deeply unhappy John was, bluntly, a lethal John. A real shame his arm had taken him out of the running for more missions. That kind of controlled, cold rage, was just the thing for the Service, when push came to shove and it often did in certain assignments.

.............

'He did it, you know, because he thought he should, John. How wrong, how unwell is that? He wanted me to solve the problem of Rebecca, who's now called Rachel, by the by, because he simply can't bear the thought of sharing you with Moriarty and Mary's daughter. He actually thought he needed to do stuff like this, to persuade me to help.

‘He's devastated that you said that you still loved Mary. It's destroying him.

‘It's my fault, what happened this morning, he made the advance swiftly and very forcefully, I was so shocked, but of course I should have pushed him away straight away - and I didn't. Because you're right, John. We are wrong, our family, all wrong at the heart. And it is wrong. And I am ashamed of myself and desperately worried for him. And perhaps you are right, maybe, just maybe, I did feel that way about him, and you are right to be so hostile. Maybe I finally proved you right today. A hollow victory, if victory it is in any sense.

‘I promise you that all ended today.

‘But HE doesn't, he really doesn't, love or want me, John. The only person Sherlock has ever loved, sexually, romantically, is you.

‘Today was only his way of getting revenge for your Mary words, of lashing out and of trying to get me on side, to manipulate me into doing what he's desperate for someone, anyone to do. To make Rachel disappear and no longer threaten his mental stability and your marriage. He's already terrified that he's going to lose Parthalan and Ishbel, and probably you in the process, John. He can't cope with another child, however responsible you feel for that child. He's gone alone with the Parthalan project and suffered for it. He's gone along with the Ishbel project too, which was even more risky. Again, it's taken and is taking, its toll on him.

‘What he did today was a manifestation of the damage of his abuse, not just by Lang, but those who have abused him since. Both his sexual behaviour and his terror at the thought of yet another child. Especially this particular child, I'm sorry to say. Moriarty and Mary between them did quite a number on him, and you too, one way or another.

‘It's making him ill, John. More unwell mentally than I've seen him since the period straight after Lang. The thing with the drug dealers, on the Moran hunt was bad, but it was straightforward. Even his suicide attempt at Eaton Square was foreseeable if I'd been on the ball more. But now, now I have no idea at all, and there are the children to consider, and, let's be honest, Parthalan in particular.'

.............

Mycroft looked deadly serious now. And sad.

'I'm only going to say this once. You are going to need to choose, John and I know it's not a good time to ask you to do it, while you're rightly so furiously angry with both of us. But you do need to do it. You simply cannot take Rachel into your family and expect Sherlock not to crash and burn. He's close enough already, today's ridiculous events tell us that.

‘I once said to you that it was time to take a side, John. And you chose Sherlock, then, to stand with him, and protect and trust him. It's time to take a side again now. You can't have both. You just cannot. Rachel will be well looked after without you. But without you, who will look after my brother, John? Only you have that power. No one else can do it, especially not me, not now.

‘So let me know when you have your answer. Because you can keep collecting children and sacrifice Sherlock; or you can put him first, and perhaps save him.

‘It's your call. I will look after Rachel. Or you can choose to fight me to have her. But, be under no illusion, John. Make the wrong choice, choose the child over my brother and I will consider it open season, despite my own sins in this mess, even if that means today's horrible events becoming public knowledge.

‘There is nothing, literally nothing that I would not give up on this earth to save Sherlock and so, in truth, there is nothing that anyone could do to me, that would be a blackmail or bargaining tool. Even the public suggestion of incest, should you choose to make that public for any reason. My parents have been devastated by far worse already in their lives in relation to their children already. They may even be less surprised than we imagine. 

‘I once saved his life and I let my older brother die in order to do so. I'd only known William for four years at that point. There was only four years of love built up. There's forty four, now, John. Forty four. Imagine the power of that love. Just imagine it. It may not be sexual, now, in any of its nature. I have hurt him deeply with my rejection, but it is irrevocable.

‘But this love is cut into me like veins of crystal in rock. He matters more than anything.

‘I WILL not let you hurt him, John.'

.............

With this, Mycroft rose, and a minion materialised and threw cash into the cafe table to pay for all their purchases.

John sat there, alone, mutely unable to comprehend the mess he was faced with. He hated both Holmes brothers and his own aching heart yearned for his small daughter and troubled son, back long hours away in England.

...........

When Mycroft Holmes next saw John Watson, it was late evening and the man was predictably nursing a large drink in the bar, with a good few empties piled up next to it and a couple of chasers lined up for good measure.

He was clearly intending to get blind drunk, and was already at the partially-sighted large-print drunk stage.

Mycroft didn't have a view on that, as such, though the words "the apple doesn't fall far from the tree" sprang to mind; but he did have a definite view on the fact that he could hear John, mumbling away to himself but audible from at least three other tables, just on the cusp of launching into a tirade all about Sherlock and Mycroft and their “keep it in the family” themed sexual activities.

He was also occasionally throwing crisps, which was entirely unacceptable behaviour from an Englishman abroad in Mycroft's view. Cheese and onion, too… vulgar beyond measure. One could acquire Tyrrels roasted vegetable crisps here, he was sure. Or at the very least, something of the Duchy Originals range.

Mycroft swooped over, like a waiter, unnoticed and extracted a small vial from his pocket, behind John's back. Rather like Sherlock in the Landmark restaurant when he and John were somewhat violently reunited, Mycroft used sleight of hand to first unsheath the needle, then draw up an appropriate dose to sedate John, carefully attracting his attention right at the last moment as he slipped the needle into his neck.

He then re-sheathed the needle, called over a waiter and told him that John had overdone it and he would be very much better in bed. The waiter was happy to assist, valuing one less very drunk customer as bettering his chances of a quiet night and no fighting on the premises. With his help, John was neutralised as a risk, for now and safely if somewhat roughly escorted to his and Sherlock's room.

..............

Sherlock, of course, was nowhere to be found. He returned to the hotel late that night but did not return at all to their room, or to John, sitting in the lounge bar alone until dawn, disturbed only by the cleaners coming in to do their early shift.

He had watched from the balcony of the hotel roof terrace as Mycroft and John had talked at the cafe. He had seen the gestures and the expressions. The look of disgust and disbelief on John's face. He realised that Mycroft had told John about events on the hillside. He did not know how to face John, how to put things right, anymore. Or even if they could now be redeemed. Now that John knew how low he had sunk.

He felt hurt by Mycroft's rejection. Lang's grooming and abuse had left him someone, who while they spurned most advances, at the same time wanted everyone, especially his closest and most loved, to desire him. Not to reject him. The knowledge of his brother's secret weakness for him had kept him warm inside on nights when he was coming down from a drugs hit, or being further debased by sucking the unsavoury cocks of his London coke dealers.

Its deletion left him floundering, unsure how to re-connect with Mycroft.

He could not conceive that Mycroft would love him as much as he had before, without there being an underlying sexual element to their relationship. Without the pips, the orange might taste sweeter, but it had no core, no potential for growth, no hidden secret heart. Secrets had been at the heart of Lang's power over him, and they exerted a continuing spell over Sherlock. He felt utterly alone, and now rejected by both the men he loved most in the world.

Now, perhaps, he had one friend only left, a friend that could be bought in back alleys of crumby neighbourhoods, which never rejected him; a chemical ally, one that would always allow him to forget.

So, before John and Mycroft returned to the room, he had packed his things, and then he sat all night in a side lobby of the hotel and then he swam a hundred lengths in the hotel pool for some unknown reason, then, then, he waited, for the moment that John would tell him that John needed to care for Rebecca and their two children and that Sherlock needed to get the hell out of all of their lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Smut, with a fragrant top note of Holmescest.....
> 
> Notes: "Do not make yourself a whore to me" is a line inspired by one that I'm sure I've remembered inaccurately but it doesn't matter, from the marvellous and wonderful Jane Campion film, The Piano. If you haven't seen the film, do try to. The cinematography, acting and music are a treat.
> 
> Music for this Chapter  
> Snowy White - Bird of Paradise


	6. Mycroft and Rachel....and a small sad night visitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Sherlock and Mycroft's disastrous sexual encounter on a Spanish hillside, Mycroft meets Mary's daughter Rachel. Sherlock and John fly back to the UK, but after a very public showdown, Mycroft is forced to step in to protect Parthalan.

It was morning again. A new day. Maybe in more ways than one. 

Mycroft leaned against the taxi door, Panama hat shading his eyes from the bright sunlight. The door of the foster home was heavy wood, bright blue painted and cheerful. He rang the clanging bell and waited. Dust coated his shining shoes. They shone no more.

The door opened just slightly and a small dark-eyed face looked out at him. This wasn't her, this face was Spanish. He asked, in English, if Rachel was here and her foster mum? The small face nodded and turned away, gabbling in Spanish. A beaming woman came to the door, wiping her floury hands on her apron and welcomed him in.

In the cool interior of the house, Mycroft Holmes sat nervously on an uncomfortable vinyl clad sofa, which he supposed was practical but was the type you got stuck to if you sat on it in shorts, looking down pensively at the quarry-tiled floor. Then he heard the slap slap of flip-flops coming along the corridor and Rachel Armstrong entered the room. The daughter of Mary, aka Anya. The daughter of Jim Moriarty.

Mycroft gazed upon her. It was four year since he had last visited and she would likely not remember him from that time. He had seen surveillance footage since, of course, but it was mainly black and white, not always high quality. Now he saw her properly, the dark, almost black eyes, the fair hair, and the casual style that she had inherited from both her parents. She wore off the shoulder dungaree shorts in tan cotton, with a white T shirt. And how intelligent those eyes were, darting to and fro, taking in everything at a glance. She was her parents' child, for certain. Though hopefully her morality might be a little better developed, at least where killing innocent bystanders was concerned.......

..................

'Hello, Rachel, I'm Mycroft Holmes.'

She looked curious, and a little shy now. He saw too, now, that she had been crying earlier and had wiped her face but left small streaks of love and sorrow. It was such little time since she had been told her mother was dead, he knew.

He was glad for her sake that Mary was mourned, if only by her and by John. Though he wished John could be a little more subtle about it for Sherlock's sake. All this wearing your heart on your sleeve was very un-British and he expected more, really, from a military man. He suspected Sherlock had provoked John into his admission, already deducing its likely content. Stupid, Sherlock. Driven to draw the harm to himself, knowingly and carelessly.

.................

'I know who you are. Mummy spoke about you. She wasn't very keen on you, she said you were on opposite sides of the chessboard. That you thought of yourself as white and her and her jobs as black, but that life isn't that simple.

‘She told me that you were very tall and that you have an umbrella with a sword and that you never wear shorts and that you were my Guardie.'

'Guardie?'

'You know, silly, an adult, one in England, to be responsible for me. And she said that you sent all the stuff that came with no stamps through the embassy, the Christmas and birthday presents and the clothes and the school fees and money and stuff.'

'Yes, that's right. Your Guardian. Quite correct, Rachel. We, the British Government, were looking after you both. From a distance.'

'Mmm. The presents were nice but I think your taste in clothes needs to be better. But you didn't really, did you? Look after us. I mean, Mummy's dead. So you didn't look after her?'

'Well, we don't know if it was just an accident or not at the moment, Rachel.'

Rachel looked at him sideways. The dark eyes looked black and Mycroft felt as if she was able to see inside him.

'I don't think it was. Really, do you? There was no reason for her tyre to burst. And she was a careful driver, always. Not like most drivers, especially on the coast road? We passed a really awful smash last week near Nerja and the man on the motorcycle had, like NO actual LEG.'

Mycroft marvelled at the gruesome fascination of children (as well as Sherlock’s of course) with the most grisly spectacles in life.

'I'm sure she was a good driver, Rachel. And no. We probably didn't do a good enough job at protecting her. I’m very sorry, you know, about your Mummy. I know that she was a very good and loving mother to you, and that you loved her very much. And it was our intention that you remain with her and live here.

‘But we can try to do better at looking after you, if you would like to come back to England. It will be easier there. Just in case, in case perhaps, you are right, in case it wasn't an accident. And if it wasn't, we will find who did it, Rachel, I promise you that, and we will ensure they face what they deserve, for taking your Mummy away.’

.............

'So I need to come back with you?'

'If you would be agreeable? Would you come?'

'Dunno. I guess. My whole life I've been here. It's all I know? But really I suppose, it was just me and Mummy. She made me laugh such a lot. All the time. And she's not here any more. So I guess there's nothing here now. I think maybe I don't want to stay here. It just reminds me that she's not here.'

'I understand. And a fresh start is what I'm offering, though your Mum won't be forgotten wherever you are, far from it. It's not an easy choice for you, I realise. But you will be much safer in London, much easier to protect and keep safe. I have a large house which is very secure and it's quite lonely for me, living there all alone with only the staff. I think they get bored of my jokes, perhaps. I think I lack the delivery skill with humour, perhaps.

‘And you could choose what sort of school you'd like to go to? You could go to a day school, like here, if you liked, or if you prefer, you could go to boarding school in the countryside?'

'Like in the books? Like Trebizon or Malory Towers or St Clare's? With ponies? And lacrosse?'

Mycroft laughed. He hadn't laughed for a long time. Parthalan didn't laugh much and John rarely brought Ishbel; he mainly saw her when they coincided on the few visits Sherlock and John had made with their family to the Manor and even there the children stayed at the Dower House, of course.

'Exactly like that. With lacrosse and ponies and huge trunks and midnight feasts, all of it. If you wanted. But there would be no hurry to decide. You won't go to school until the autumn, it's all been agreed. In the meantime, we might get you a pet, if you'd like that? So you won't be too lonely when I'm at work, although there are the staff who run my house too.

..................

Rachel looked stunned.

‘A pet? Mummy said we couldn't have one, she was allergic or something. Could we have a rabbit or a cat or a dog?’

‘You could have any one of those, although perhaps a dog would only work if you didn't go to boarding school, because he would get lonely. A cat might be best, don't you think? They would be happy with seeing you when you were there but wouldn't get lonely if you were away with your friends?’

‘'Kay. A cat. A kitten. Black with green eyes. Called Cinder. Do I need to pack now?'

'You don't need to do anything, just take the small things you like to keep close to you. Everything else will be packed up and sent on to us in London, which might take a week or two. We can go whenever you like. There's no paperwork, I'm already your legal guardian, so we are free to fly back today, if you'd like? I made sure you have a passport. We might need to get you some warmer clothes for when we arrive, I will make some calls.'

'Do you just call people and things happen then? Like, I dunno, slaves or something?'

Mycroft laughed again. That was twice now. This was getting to be a habit.

'Not quite. But I have a very busy and important job, Rachel. So I do have staff, to make sure that's the only thing I need to concentrate on. Or, in this case, you are. They will cook your meals, but it won't all be boring stuff, you can have telly-supper food as well. I know children aren't mad about Bath Oliver biscuits and duck terrine for dinner every night.’

..............

Rachel looked at Mycroft curiously now. Something was obviously tickling away at her brain. Mycroft thought he liked Rachel. She was bright.

'Mummy said that your brother-in-law was her husband, before she had me, but that they got divorced when I was born? John? Is that right.'

Mycroft swallowed hard.

'That's right, yes'

'And...... that he's now married to a man? And that's your brother? The man he married?'

'Yes, that's quite correct. He married my brother, Sherlock.'

'So, how come? I know that there are men who love men, as well as men who love women, gay men, I don't mean that bit. But if he loved Mummy, why would they split up and then him love a man afterwards? Or did he not love Mummy and only ever loved the man?'

'It's a bit complicated, Rachel. Things were....difficult. But John did love your Mummy, when they met, and when they married, and when you were born. It was afterwards that it went - not so well.

Sometimes adults love each other but it doesn't last forever. And then, when that happens, it is better that they are apart, so that they can hold onto the good times they had, than to spoil them all, by growing angry and resentful, trying to still be together.

And some people can love both men and women, Rachel, and then, as with my brother's husband, John, it just depends who is really the true love of their life. And so then, a while after your Mummy and John stopped loving each other, John realised that he loved my brother, Sherlock, and that Sherlock really was the love of John's life.'

'And Sherlock? What's he like? Weird names, by the way. Your mum might have been smoking something she shouldn't when he had you. Is he very loveable, then? Is he easy to love? Is he special? Is that why John loves him? Mycroft?'

Mycroft bit his lip before he answered. And cleared his throat. It was fortunate that Rachel was only seven, or those tics might have led to more questions. Her words, her choice of phrase....it affected him. Sank into his heart.

'Yes, Rachel, he is. My brother is very special. And he is very easy to love. Far, far too easy.'

He shook himself.

'Now, let's get you in your coat, and whatever warm things you have around to take with you, shall we, and then we will say thank-you very much to your foster Mum. I have some flowers and some chocolates for her, though I'm not sure the chocolates really liked the heat on the journey here.....'

..................

 

John and Sherlock flew back to the UK some five hours after Mycroft had swept Rachel (which seemed to have been accepted as her name, since it was the only one she knew) back to London in a private jet he chartered.

John had woken earlier that morning with a terrible headache, and little memory of the night before. He did not remember being drugged, only of drinking in the bar and then waking up in his room. The hotel bill had been settled by Mycroft. There was nothing more to be done. Mary's remains were being transported back to the UK for burial. It would be slim pickings in the service collection. One of the few facts about Mary that wasn't a lie was the fact she was an orphan.

John and Sherlock spoke only to exchange necessary formalities for their travel. Each read, or watched the inflight movie during the flight, and once they landed, waited for their luggage, silent again.

Sherlock looked wretched, slumped against a pillar in the baggage hall. The normally suave detective in Hart and Belstaff hadn't shaved, or changed out of yesterday's dusty and stained (with what?, John thought angrily) jogging outfit and his eyes were reddened and gritty.

.................

It was John who was the first to speak. And it was clear that Mycroft's plea for clemency towards his brother, had, for now at least, fallen on stony ground.

'I'm uh. Going to take a bit of time, some space. You know. It might be best. I thought I might take Ishbel to see Harry and then my Mum, perhaps drop in on some of my army mates who have kids. Bit of a road trip.'

Sherlock looked crushed.

'Please. Don't do this, John. Please. Please don't start going down this road!'

John caught hold of his wrist.

'You have no right. NO RIGHT, Sherlock, to be asking me anything. None.

‘Now you either let me leave now, temporarily and hope that I come back, if I feel that I can; or you can choose the other option. Which is that I go now, for good.

‘And if I go for good, Sherlock, I will do what's right for our children. And right now, I don't think that you are capable of caring for Parthalan permanently on your own, even with Kirsty's help.

‘So let me go, damn you and your fucking brother, and give me some space, so that I can try to get my head round all this and control my temper. And just you make sure you look after that little boy of ours in the meantime, because if you don't, I will bloody well finish what Mary failed to. Understood?'

...............

Sherlock railed at the mention of Mary's name. His voice suddenly cold.

'Mary is dead, John. Mary tried to murder me when I tried to help her. Mary told you that her child was yours when she knew it was the child of a mass murderer. Mary herself was, technically, a mass murderer.

‘So forgive, me, John, if I say that I am sick and tired of you venerating the name of Mary Fucking Watson Fucking Moriarty Fucking Morstan and her ever-hallowed memory. I'll have Mycroft send you the contents of the data stick you refused to read. Then you'll know what kind of person you married.

‘Finish what she failed to? It would take you decades, John, just to get round all the people she killed. Husbands, wives. Little kids like Rachel, John. Really, really small ones. For money, John. Charity workers. Environmental protestors. Doctors and nurses, John. People just like you. Nice. Getting the picture now?

‘To date, we have established that she was directly responsible for one hundred and twenty seven deaths of innocent people and, including bombings, implicated in over five hundred others. Finish what she started? Don't make me laugh, John Watson. If you even touch anything that woman was involved in, I would feel too dirty to come within a hundred feet of you. Do you think I would want that contamination? So don't come at me with the "Doctor John" moral high ground, about me and especially my brother! He did nothing wrong and our transgressions, even if realised, would only hurt the three of us, not innocent strangers.

‘You're deluding yourself about Mary, still. And I have no idea about why you would do that, unless you can't accept that the whole thing with Mary was a massive mistake and you should have been with me from the start? But maybe you don't think that? Maybe you wish your nice normal suburban life with a woman had worked out? Maybe this really is second best for you? Putting up with the freak with the dick when you'd rather have a psychopath murderer with tits?

‘I gave you a child, John. I gave you two children. Neither of which I wanted. One to set you free and one to make you a father, which that bitch took away from you. What more can I do, to be the spouse you crave? I'm serious. I can't actually be a woman?

‘Maybe, in the end, that is what you still really really wanted?'

..............

Sherlock was shouting now. The baggage hall was crowded and yet fell completely silent. The only noise, the raucous buzzers of the baggage carousels starting and stopping, their contents disgorged and ignored by their owners. Security men, launches spilling over their belts, laid down their doughnuts and coffee and began to close in, ready to take action should fists be raised.

A press photographer, used to photographing celebrities, had been tipped off, scampering down to the hall and caught an excellent shot of the famous detective screaming at his red-faced husband in the middle of the baggage hall. It turned out to be a good earner when it was syndicated. People hadn't forgotten about the celebrity detective, it transpired and rocking Savile Row threads like a rock star gives you fans that last. And whether they admit it or not, everyone likes to see the smug rich and famous, self-destructing in front of their eyes.

There was no violence, only rejection. John was shaking his head and walking away now. That purposeful, slightly bow legged gait, clenching fists, holdall in hand, marching army-fashion away from his husband. Not looking back.

It might as well have been a million miles, those few but increasing yards between them.

Sherlock ran after him and grabbed him, tried to pull him round, to stop him going. John looked down at the hand and then at Sherlock. The look said, "Take your hand off me - right now - Or you will, you WILL, regret it".

Sherlock removed his hand. Stared down at it, as if it was operating independently of his own will. Not believing that John might be leaving him, taking Ishbel, leaving him with Parthalan and a fractured relationship with his brother.

'You could have perhaps not attempted to give your brother a blow job, Sherlock?', John said tightly, with gritted teeth. 'That, yeah, hmm, that really would have helped? And I'm going to try to keep thinking of you as unwell, I really, really am. Because if you're not, you know, then it means you did just fancy sucking your brother's cock. And if that's the case, I'm done. Gone for good. I mean it, Sherlock. Everyone has their limit, and deepthroating your brother's dick is, I now know, mine.

‘The love I retained for Mary, yeah, that's tough for you to deal with. But you're gonna have to suck it up. Because most of all, that love is simply because without Mary, without her love and whatever her initial motives for moving in on me, some of that love was real; that was what kept me fucking alive, Sherlock Holmes. Alive for there to be a John Watson for you to come back to after you'd finished defeating Moriarty's network singlehanded, doing it alone because you didn't trust me to come with you, or keep your secret, because to destroy me was the best way to convince them.

‘And you did, Sherlock. Destroy me. I was a dead man walking and I would have been dead, Sherlock, DEAD, without Mary in my life at that time. I don't really care whether it offends you, that I retained some feeling for her because of that, some loving gratitude. 

‘I didn't want her in my life, I still don't, her deeds and her actions were way too toxic and amoral, but I can't hate her like you want me to. And I'm sorry, so bloody sorry that's she's dead and Rachel now has no one.

‘So get yourself some help, will you, yeah? More of Tamara, maybe others than Tamara as well. Anyone. Anyone, Sherlock, who can fix you into being someone who doesn't think it's perfectly OK to sell yourself as a sub to your brother in order to stop me looking after my dead ex-wife's orphaned daughter.

‘And then, then, Sherlock, I'll tell you, yeah, I'll let you know, MATE, if I think Ishbel and I will, if we can, come home. Don't hold your breath.'

................

And with that, he walked away, right away this time, out of the baggage hall and out of sight.

Sherlock watched him until his short solid figure disappeared and he was left, all alone with the bags bumping around the carousel, with hundreds of scornful, or sympathetic, or spitefully amused eyes staring at him. Feeling like a cheap garish paper bag that is caught up in a windy rainstorm, colourful to start but soon ripped and empty and unrecognisable. Pulped. Trodden on.

He sat down on the floor of the baggage hall. It wasn't very clean. It didn't matter. He wasn't, either. Clean. He folded his arms over his face, so that the press cameras could not see him.

..............

Sherlock travelled back to Baker Street some hours later, leaving only once the press had given up and airport security were getting ready to ask the police to move him on.

He got out of the taxi in the Park and slowly walked the rest of the way. On arrival at 221B he took weary possession of an hysterical Parthalan from Kirsty. He had intended to ask her to stay on and to explain John and Ishbel's absence, but he was late already and she told him that John had already been and gone, and had taken Ishbel off to visit relatives. She also said that she had been asked by Mycroft to come and help him at Eaton Square with Rachel, since he himself had so little experience with children and John had said that was fine, so she had agreed.

'Mycroft managed fine with me', Sherlock muttered and wondered, as she left, what he was going to do now? His small son was looking at him expectantly, hysteria gone and now beyond blissful that his beloved Papa was back; yet all Sherlock could think of, was that John had gone, John had left him; already his veins were buzzing, telling him to get out of here now, run, to just ignore the fact he had a son, to find the nearest dealer, to wash over it all with chemical bliss and forget everything.

And then there was a sharp tug on his wrist and a small voice, asking him to go and watch him do a handspring, which Bee said he'd just learned.

Sherlock felt sick. He tried not to look at the boy's face as he told him 'he just needed to make some calls first'.

...................

He called Molly. And he lied to her.

His mother was unwell. He couldn't take Parthalan, it was possibly serious and no, not really best for children. Could they look after....really grateful....no trouble at all?....thank you so much. A couple of days, no more.

And now the protesting and tearful little boy was bundled into his too-big duffle coat, at that time of night, and driven far too fast across London to Hampstead and summarily deposited in Molly's care; when she wished his mother well, she noticed that Sherlock looked confused for a moment, before thanking her and almost running back to the car. He didn't answer her question and he didn't seem to have noticed Poppy in her playpen, at all.

She called out to him.

'Sherlock. You are...you are all right, aren't you?' Her mousy face scrunched up with worry. She could see he wasn't high, but his face had the same ravaged desperation, lacking its usual mask of calm superiority.

'Never better, Molly. Never better.' But his face was thunderous.

And with that, he was gone. Melted away into the night.

Molly knew he wasn't all right. Greg was watching the football, but he did her the great honour of turning it off, when he saw her face. She settled Parthalan down with some toast soldiers and mouthed at Greg that they would have to talk later, not in front of the boy. He nodded, and turned the match back on.

Parthalan wouldn't eat the toast and he didn't want a cuddle. He would only stay if he could stand by the door, keeping his duffel coat on, hugging his stuffed toy and looking out the window for when Papa would come back for him. It made Molly's heart break to look at him, and she hugged Poppy tighter to her. Poppy was brown haired with bunches and didn't mind wearing Molly's attempts at dressmaking. Today she was luckier and had a Clothkits pinafore on, which had the benefit that the pattern and instructions were clear and therefore, unlike Molly's freestyle efforts, the arms were the same length and the buttons met the buttonholes. Parthalan was dressed in navy shorts and a pale pink polo shirt. He looked impossibly skinny and frail, to Molly, who liked to see children active but also healthy. She walked over and tried hugging Parthalan, but he twisted away and held onto his bee toy instead, looking horrified.

...........

It was only seven minutes later, when she had bribed Poppy with crisps and a DVD and Parthalan was still gazing out into the night, that she got a call from Mycroft.

'Stop him, Molly. Stop Sherlock. Don't let him leave. He's lying. Our mother isn't ill. Get him back in the house, now.'

'What are you talking about, Mycroft? He isn't here. Well, he was, obviously, but he went five or ten minutes ago, left like a bat out of hell. He's left Parthalan with us - he said it was for a couple of days? He looked not very good, if I'm honest, I thought? But if your mother isn't ill, why is he......is he OK, Mycroft?'

Mycroft had disconnected, and slammed his phone against the desk. He'd seen the online gossip page photos of the baggage hall. Seen the footage of John leaving with Ishbel. Seen Sherlock bundling a protesting and clearly upset Parthalan into the car. He just hadn't any footage from the signal not-spot outside Molly's place in Hampstead. Damn him. Damn him.

He sent a car to pick up Parthalan. It wasn't fair to involve Molly and Greg, and Parthalan and Rachel should be company for each other. He wondered how long Parthalan would be staying and how long it would be before the little boy saw his half sister Ishbel again?

............

By the time Parthalan had been bundled back into a limousine and driven across back into central London and to Eaton Square, he was hungry and beginning to be frightened. There was no Papa. Papa wasn't coming back.

He wasn't really tall enough to see out of the car windows, and all he could see was the burly shape of the driver and the agent accompanying them and the flashes of streetlights and shop displays, as they neared their destination. So much of his short life involved people who were paid to be nice to him or paid to look after him. They bought him nice toys and offered him delicious food. But all he wanted was Papa and gym-and-dancing and Dad, in that order.

The only thing he had with him that gave him any small comfort was his Bee toy, inside his duffle coat and he kept him in there so he wouldn't be cold or get left behind, so he carefully cuddled Bee to his chest inside the duffle and breathed into its plush fur, blinking back the tears that prickled at his eyes. 'I will not cry. I will not cry. Papa will come back for me. He WILL. I will not cry', he whispered, but the tears ran down his face, despite the valiant words.

When they reached Mycroft's house, the agent held open the door and Parthalan shuffled out. The front door opened, and Uncle Mycroft looked down at the pathetic skinny, tear-stained figure.

'Oh Bee. Bee. What's all this? There's no need for those tears. Come in now. You must be cold and Cook has made you some nice ginger biscuits. Look, they're even still warm.'

Mycroft crouched down, put out his hand, and waited.

Parthalan sniffed and looked around, as if Papa might appear, as he sometimes did, like a magician's rabbit out of a hat. But there was no rabbit, no magician, no Papa. He stuck out his lower lip, and took Mycroft's hand, and was led inside the house.

...........

Once divested of his toggle-bound outerwear, Bee looked around him. This house was nothing like Baker Street. He knew he'd been here before, but he was littler then, so didn't remember. The hallway seemed vast, so shining and clean, the lighting bright and sparkling. Baker Street was more gloomy, dusty and old, and all layers of everyone who had ever lived there. But it was home. It felt like home. This place was grand, but it wasn't home.

Mycroft said he would like Bee to meet a little girl called Rachel, who was staying with him and was two years older than him. Parthalan frowned. He didn't want to meet a little girl, whether she was called Rachel or anything else. Especially not one that was older and might bully him or dress him up in her girl’s games. He wanted just Papa and failing that, he wanted his uncle, all to himself. Not sharing.

Mycroft saw the look.

'She's been living in Spain, Bee. She can tell you about it. And I believe she does gymnastics and dance, too, though who knows where the distinction lies between those two. (Eyes lit up a little at that). And she needs someone to be really, really kind to her, because her mummy died very recently, and she has no daddy.'

Oh dear. Mistake to mention Daddies. Tears welled up.

'Oh Bee. Don't cry, my precious boy. Come up here.'

And Mycroft reached down and scooped up the weeping scrap, who clung on around his neck. Mycroft held him close and breathed in his smell, holding him tighter still. The small huffing gradually calmed into hiccuping and then at last into steady breaths and Mycroft sat back into his large winged armchair, Bee on his knee, thinking that all the excitement and satisfaction of his job, all his money and power, all the dangerous and thrilling sexual encounters he had in his life, that, actually, none of them held the faintest, dimmest candle to this feeling he had of pure aching love for this damply snuffling child.

.............

The envy Mycroft had always tried to resist, when he considered the entity that was Sherlock, was unstoppably out of the bottle, in his mind, now. He didn't ever mind, hadn't ever minded, that Sherlock was beautiful and he was not. Didn't ever mind that Sherlock was free to be dashing, famous and unrestricted by "being a Holmes". Didn't even mind that Sherlock's chosen life partner, was someone he could openly love and live with, marry even, so very unlike the circumstances facing Mycroft and his own first true love, Wasim.

But at this moment, picking up the pieces from Sherlock wantonly casting his son aside to run off to play with needles and smack or coke, he was bitterly, bitterly envious of Sherlock's ability to father a child. This child, this beautiful precious baby in particular.

"Why him, who doesn't want it, doesn't really want Bee and not me, who would do anything for such a chance?"

Who knew what was going to happen to poor Bee now? Whatever it was, Mycroft now resolved grimly that it would be he and not Sherlock, who decided Parthalan's future from now on. His brother had forfeited his rights. First the crack den, then Brownsea Island and now running off again, presumably to get high.

Three strikes and Sherlock was out. If Parthalan returned to him, it would be because Mycroft had decreed it. 

Mycroft was calling Tamara in the morning.

............

In the meantime, after a sleepy supper of cheese on toast and ginger biscuits, made soggy by a new bout of plopping tears, Mycroft carried Bee upstairs to put him to bed. He had decided to put him in Wellington, as it was next to his own room, but shut off the en-suite door so Parthalan didn't have an accident trying to run a bath or anything; instead he would come to the bathroom via Mycroft's room, so Mycroft could keep an eye on him.

Mycroft did not, however, know anything about the bed wetting. Bee looked miserably at the beautiful pristine sheets and knew he was going to be humiliated.

Once Mycroft had tucked him in and turned out the light, leaving just a faint green glow of a nightlight, Parthalan got straight up out of bed and quietly searched for suitable materials. Eventually he located a stack of old newspapers in the bottom of an old mahogany wardrobe. He spread them out thickly on top of the sheets. They wouldn't do the trick completely but it was all he could think of.

He had no idea of the pathetic echoes of his actions in those of his father.

Then he climbed back up into the bed and settled down on his now-crunchy and not awfully comfortable bower and tried to close his eyes and sleep. There were more tears before the sanctuary of sleep overtook him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for this chapter.....
> 
> Fleetwood Mac   
> 'Beautiful Child'
> 
> You'll have to work out if this song applies more to Sherlock or Parthalan but either way it is just so.......spine shivery......


	7. Tamara, Mycroft and John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft realises what a find Tamara really is for him. He reflects on the other sexual relationships in his life and opens up to her about his complex history with Sherlock. And Tamara tries to rein in John's inability to see Sherlock's behaviour in anything other than black and white terms.

By eight o'clock the next morning, Tamara was enhancing the huge lower ground floor kitchen at Eaton Square. Mycroft had been planning to ring her anyway, but John Watson had beaten him to it, calling Tamara on the mobile handsfree, as he drove through the night with his small chortling daughter; oblivious of her Daddy trying not to break down while he was still on the phone.

Tamara was profoundly sad to hear of Sherlock's actions in absconding, of abandoning Parthalan to the kindness of relative strangers in the shape of Molly and Greg. She was relieved that he was at least safe, and that he was with Mycroft. And she was fascinated by the events involving Rachel, who was pale but had eaten breakfast, unlike Parthalan and was currently colouring in a large picture of farmyard animals in improbably coloured felt tips. John didn't fill her in on all the details of the causes of the row, not in front of Ishbel, you never knew what tinies picked up.

Mycroft had taken her aside when she got there, to tell her about the children's presence but also about finding Parthalan enveloped in a sea of soggy stinking newspaper when he woke him up this morning.

Tamara nodded. 'It's not a new thing, then, this, if he's developed strategies to deal with it.

‘I imagine it started when Sherlock went missing before. Can you live with it, just for now? A lot of interventions will just increase the distress and I really don't think we want that. There's two beds in his room, right? Maybe tell him that if he wakes and realises he's not been dry, he should change Jim jams and then hop over into the other bed.

‘If he wants to strip the bed himself, let him, and put the linen bin in the en suite, you'll need to open that up. He's very mature: he's not going to drown in the bath like you're worried about. If anything, he's far too mature. He's worried about everything and John, sad to say, doesn't have the closeness to him to be able to make that go away. Sherlock does, of course, but it's mainly his Papa that Parthalan is worried about so… Yep… .vicious circle.'

Mycroft nodded. Just having Tamara here made things seem more manageable.

'I dont care about any of it, Tamara, except doing what's possible in minimising his distress and addressing its root causes when he can, when he's up to it. After well, after some events that we haven't discussed so far, when my elder brother Sherrinford died in an accident, when I was eleven and William four, we slept in my bed for a month together and William wet that bed every night. Even in his own bed, it was most nights after that, for months, years I think. So this is nothing I haven't dealt with before, I just have more help with the laundry now.....'

'Good. Any coffee going?'

...........

Tamara sat at the kitchen island table, blowing on her too-hot coffee and watching the children. Rachel so playful and assured, which was only partly a function of her older age, and Parthalan, so watchful and quiet and diffident.

After an hour or so she went and sat at the table with them, drinking her replenished coffee and occasionally commenting on Rachel's drawing, or helping Parthalan create ever more improbable structures with the matches and Blu-tack he was fiddling with. She noticed how graceful and fluid his movements were, even moving around the room. She asked him about gym and dancing, and watched his whole face light up with a glow she had never seen before as he talked about it, chattering away and seeming to forget, briefly, his troubles. She thought that was very interesting, as it was the only thing that seemed to override his anxieties, even temporarily.

Mycroft, charcoal waistcoat-clad but jacketless, stood with his back to the huge Lacanche range cooker, tapping away on his phone on work-related matters and watching the oddly domestic scene. He felt strangely grounded and relaxed. And the back view of Tamara was… Mmm… a… not altogether unpleasant sight, at all! She was a similar age to him, he knew that. She'd been married, but not for a long time, probably her work might have made that a challenge, if her former husband wasn't as committed to her causes?

He dashed off an email requesting her dossier. He'd seen her file before, of course, when considering who should take on Sherlock's therapy, but hadn't taken much notice then, other than the security aspects and her suitability for the thankless task of coaxing his brother to speak and to relive his car crash of a history. He had been very satisfied with his choice, all in all. Tamara might not have been able to heal Sherlock with talking alone, but he wouldn't have made it this far without her.

Now he wanted the file again, then, for rather different reasons. He decided that, although it might be considered unprofessional, given his brother was a client of hers, he might dare to ask Tamara to have dinner with him. Though she would probably refuse. Middle age had him in its clutches firmly, these days, he knew only too well and he was under no illusion that he was God's gift to man or woman, save for the small minority who craved the sort of domination that he could unleash, given the slightest chance.

He didn't suppose Tamara was a fan of that sort of scene, but he found her attractive, none the less. He had power over the fate of others, in a very direct sense; but she had power over how they lived with the consequences of the actions of people like him, and even more so, his adversaries. And she fought for the rights of the mothers who screamed cries like that his own mother made, when she was told that twelve year old Sherry was dead. That might be important, he thought, though he didn't know exactly how or why.

...............

He just had to work out how to word it, now. He was out of practice with all things wooing-related. The only recent partners he'd had were both male, Prince Wasim, with whom he managed only an occasional, pretty rough but touchingly emotional, Dom-Dom encounter in an anonymous Travelodge just behind IKEA in Neasden. Now there was Piers, his current sub, who he'd met through the Tintern club and whom he usually met there, at Piccadilly too, for petit fours and ballgags or tea and blindfolds.

Piers was very tall and very, very pretty; young, maybe late twenties, impeccably well bred, discreet and most importantly, blissfully, utterly submissive; a rare and precious find. He worked part-time in a sculpture gallery in Hoxton, one of those places that's all glass and sparkling white walls which never seem to actually open and which are only ever seen populated by painfully hip crowds. There was never much on display, but what there was, seemed to consist largely of tastefully backlit bronze casts of dicks. His mother was a Lady in Waiting to the Queen and his father owned a large and successful polo club in Berkshire. His accent could cut glass at fifty paces. He was delicious. A bit like a sherbet dip. Light, fizzy and won't spoil your appetite for your tea.

Normally, of course. Mycroft wouldn't have stood a chance with Piers against better looking, younger competition; he was hardly the freshest slab of meat on the counter and Piers was extraordinary; but Piers was unusual in that he was looking for something more extreme than most people were offering. Mycroft was in this, as in all things, not like most people… It was originally suggested by the club committee that they would be well-matched and the committee rarely got these things wrong.

The relationship was casual, but it served its purpose and it suited both parties very well. Mycroft invested a small but meaningful sum into the company shares of the manufacturers of medicated balms and linaments, and made good use of the confiscated contents of Sherlock's dismantled pleasuredome from the attic of 221B. It would have been a pity to leave it all gathering dust.

.................

So why was he interested in Tamara, if he had both a stunning and beautifully trained submissive and also a very much loved Prince, available for sex on tap? It couldn't be children, since he knew he was medically infertile.

What exactly was he looking for here? Mycroft gave this a lot of considered thought after Tamara had left, since the instinct to approach her had surprised him as much as it would have done most of his acquaintances.

In the end, he concluded over a balloon glass of a glowing aged Macallan, that perhaps he was just getting older. Perhaps he was looking for someone wanted to be with all the time, not just for sexual encounters. That could have been Wasim, of course, except that their sexual compatibility was troubled by their joint dominance which could be a danger to them physically, but more than that, Wasim was simply not free to live the life that Mycroft would be seeking, a public relationship of open commitment.

They had hoped that this might have changed, within their lifetimes, but it was becoming clear that this was not going to be the case, and this imbued their encounters with a bitter jagged edge. They would never be together openly.

Mycroft turned his mind to his motivations where Tamara was concerned. Maybe he also wanted the intellectual companionship. Maybe he just found her attractive physically? No, it was something more, different than that.

Maybe, in the end, he just wanted someone to come home to?

..................

In the end, blissfully, he didn't have to broach the subject of a date. They didn't exactly "go out", but Tamara stayed all day, seemingly willingly, which he found strange but flattering and so he was able to suggest that the chef made them some food, and then his driver would run her home later.

Tamara, long deeply intrigued by the mythical elder Holmes legend, gladly accepted. Mycroft was aware of the feeling of being as much a case study as a dinner companion, or at least the possibility of that, and then also found to his surprise that he didn't actually mind the idea as much as he had thought.

..................

After the children were in bed, and how weird did that one sound?, they sat and ate steamed lemon sole fillets and sautéed potatoes with green beans, drank a soft Muscadet and talked about music and theatre, though not the heinous crime, in Mycroft's view, of the combination of these words and she laughed at his stories about terrible ambassadors and disastrous productions of classic works that he'd sat through all over the world. As the evening wore on, Mycroft felt an unfamiliar weight inside himself, which felt a little like he'd breathed in a little too much happy and was unused to it.

After dinner, they retired to the dark, comfortable sitting room, with coffee and dark mints, and the fire crackling in the grate, and the conversation inevitably turned, like Mycroft's mind eternally did, to his brother.

‘I should tell you, Mycroft, that I received a letter from Sherlock, yesterday evening, advising me that my services are no longer required. One of his homeless network turned up with it, it was a scribbled thing and I have to say, from the handwriting, that the writer was under the influence of some form of intoxication. Clearly that is a disappointment to me when I felt we had made such huge progress in the time he's been with me. Do you know what might have prompted it, because it came out of the blue?'

Mycroft sat back and steepled his fingers. Which way to take through the tangled woods here? Say he had no idea, risking any relationship that might develop if she found out it was built on a lie? Or be honest and risk her running a mile from the knowledge that her possible new partner, was not only bisexual with a marked tendency towards men, but was also at least potentially capable of incest with his own, deeply troubled, younger brother?

It didn't sound great, even inside his head.

.............

He surprised himself, sat back, took a deep breath - and came clean. For once in his life, he had to concentrate in order to ensure his voice remained steady and controlled.

'When we were in Spain, there was a prolonged and heated argument between John and Sherlock, about John's feelings for and words about, Mary, Rachel's recently deceased mother. Sherlock was distraught and behaving strangely to John, accusing him of wanting Sherlock to be a woman, that this was what John wanted from him, from any partner and then Sherlock disappeared up into the hills.

‘I tracked him down, intending to talk to him, but… and this is not easy to say, but he tried to seduce me and I allowed him to kiss me, and… I also did not stop him putting his hands upon me. On my body. Underneath my clothes. To be precise, Tamara, his hands on my penis. Both of us hard. Him… doing things. Almost - almost - beyond the point of no return.

‘I came to my senses suddenly, once that happened, once I felt myself losing control, the reality hit me and I felt like a pervert, dirty and abusive, I shouted and got away and prevented anything more substantive happening, prevented anyone getting to the stage of climax, but still… It was disgusting and shameful. I am ashamed.

‘And John knows, I told him; that's why he's left with Ishbel. And John leaving is the trigger for Sherlock absconding again.'

Tamara never looked shocked, or surprised at anything clients divulged. And she did not do so, now.

'Do you think there's another glass of that wine left in the bottle? Think I could do with a top-up. Possibly a large one.'

.............

By the end of the evening, they were still talking about Sherlock. And Mycroft was beguiled by Tamara. So much so, that he was speaking freely on subjects that he thought he'd rather die than divulge.

Tamara asked Mycroft about his feelings for his brother. She knew his protestations of disgust about Sherlock's behaviour were covering for his confused feelings about the little brother who had gone from cheeky innocent to disturbed and suicidal rape victim in a matter of weeks all those years ago.

She was surprised by his forthright and honest reply. Perhaps he could do it because it was now finally behind him, a past-tense guilty secret.

'I don't know how to describe it. It's like he's child and brother and friend and lover all rolled up into this ball of life, yet he's so brittle and brilliant, sometimes burning hot and other times so, so cold.'

..............

'So you don't think of him as just a brother. Did you ever?'

'Yes. Before Sherry died, definitely and for years after too. We were incredibly close, but purely as brothers.

‘Then, it was after Lang and the abuse. I… I don't know. It must have been some time after that, when I started to have dreams about Sherlock. Not straight away. It was like the idea of him as a sexual being was planted then… and then as he matured as a teenager, that poisonous plant grew in my head.

‘I think it was after I had Lang killed. So Sherlock was, I think, fourteen. Maybe I felt that I had erased the evil man and then I could step in and overwrite the awful things. Maybe I was scared for Sherlock to go out and experiment with relationships and sex with other people, because he was so damaged and vulnerable. Maybe, I don't know.

‘Maybe knowing all that stuff about what your baby brother has been doing, has been made to do, maybe that warped my sense of what was an appropriate feeling to have for him. I just felt like I had all this unlimited love and want for him now and I didn't know how to see him anymore, he wasn't my naughty innocent little brother, he knew everything about bodies and sex and… .and that came out in my dreams.

‘You should know Tamara, that up until the events in Spain in the last few days, I have never sought to make that fantasy a reality, nor has Sherlock ever given the slightest suggestions, in word or body language, that he ever wanted to pursue such a course. Us Holmes men may have… unusual… tastes in many things, but we do try to follow the English gentlemen's code of trying everything except incest and Morris dancing… You know that too, anyway, from the fact of his having rejected me being involved in any physical disciplinary aspects, before Parthalan was born.'

'Ah, yes.' Tamara smiled. 'The fragrant and beguiling "Abdullah", was it not, in the end, performing that particular niche role for the Holmes family firm. Not perhaps, Mycroft, your finest hour, or your wisest decision?'

Mycroft inclined his head and smiled wryly.

‘Granted, dear lady. It seemed like a logical solution to the problem at the time and it was extremely kind of my… friend, but I think it did risk an overreaction from John. I resolved to take a more "hands off" approach.

Then Mycroft realised the unfortunate wording… and actually laughed slightly, even if a little hollow. It was just too damned ironic, given Sherlock's behaviour in Spain.

They smiled ruefully at each other and drank on. Mycroft felt happy. Apart from his run-ins with John Watson on the subject, he'd never ever spoken of his guilty secret regarding Sherlock and now he had. Added to the cessation of the feelings themselves, this unburdening was a profound relief. Almost like confession in church.

He thought he would sleep well tonight.

.................

Tamara did not break Sherlock's confidence. She did not tell Mycroft that the risk had been actual, did not tell him of the consequences of John finding out about "Abdullah". It would serve no purpose and would breach her duty of confidentiality to have done so.

She did not try to lecture Mycroft. Her comments were that she was "less surprised than Mycroft probably imagined" at his revelations and that the events had clearly brought home to Mycroft, if not perhaps to Sherlock, why incest was a taboo.

'It's not so much about the genetic risks of inbreeding, even with male-female cases, though that is a genuine concern if it becomes a habit in a population’, she mused. ‘It's the risks it carries for relationships. If you have a deep love affair and it ends incredibly painfully, then with a non-incest case, you can retreat to the sanctuary of family, the people who, if they are doing their job, will care for you and support you and help you to recover and start out again in life, rather than be destroyed.

‘But what happens if that estranged lover is your sibling? Who can you turn to, then? And how can you have a loving filial relationship again with them? Of course the relationship might last forever, like some marriages, and I suspect that a relationship between you and your brother had that potential, but that's rare and the social code means that it would always be hidden, like a dirty secret and if the secret came out, it would cause a great deal of hurt to all the people whom both the parties loved.'

.................

Mycroft nodded.

'That's the thing, I don't know how to treat Sherlock now. I feel as if he has felled me at the knee, by making me now realise that I really did desire him, did want him sexually, not in my imagination but in my body. And that's just haunting me, that thought. I don't want to want it. Or rather, I don't want to have wanted it.'

Tamara interjected quickly, keen to nip this in the bud.

'It's not really true, though, is it, with respect, Mycroft? You didn't want him like that, not when it came to the crunch. Your body reacted to the physical sensations, as bodies do and will. Male rape victims can, I'm sure you know, experience the same. And in an initial dream-like state and with deep kissing, it would be erotic, I'm sure. Sherlock is, I imagine a skilled lover and your relationship has always been very close, closer than brothers usually are, because of the role you have needed to take in Sherlock's life, to try to protect him.

‘In fact, you did more than you had to, in effect you took the distressing burden of trying to save an unravelling mind and cushion your parents from the terrible effects of what was already a horrible situation, to save them knowing just how bad things became. You tried to save all three of them.

‘But when it got real and let's be straight, here; when his hands were on your erect penis and he was masturbating you, so when things got to the stage of being really seriously sexual; then, Mycroft, you pretty much immediately saw this for the dangerous and destructive enterprise it was and you put an immediate stop to it. For the right reasons, too.

‘I don't think you stopped only because you realised you didn't desire him any longer. It's the reasons you didn't desire him that are important and mean you really shouldn't beat yourself up. You stopped because you realised that he doesn't have the judgemental capacity in sexual matters, to make proper decisions where you are concerned and therefore to continue would have, even with him instigating it, been a kind of continuation of the abuse.

‘Mycroft, I don't ever condone incestuous relationships, not ever, because I think they are always ultimately either toxic to both parties, in their relationship with each other and those around them, or because one party enters into it in a position of compromised consent and/or decision-making. For one thing, one of the parties by definition will be usually be younger than the other. I'm less concerned about genetics than I am human relationships here, though that is of course a factor with male-female incest especially when it becomes endemic in a community or society.

‘You did nothing wrong, Mycroft, not in the end. You acted honourably. And I think it's important to emphasise that I do not believe Sherlock did anything truly wrong either, given his past and his learned pattern of behaviour. Unwise and potentially damaging actions he certainly does do, but "wrong" is a judgement that can be fairly made only with someone who really has the ability to judge these things like your average person. Sherlock hasn't developed that sense, he hasn't had the proper adolescence to do it, which is why I think John needs to think twice before judging him too hard for this, but I fear he may still do it anyway. John is a conventional man at heart, a good man but a conventional one, and he will find this episode very, very difficult to accept.

‘What I think these events do show, and I can see you are all too well aware of it, is just how desperate Sherlock must have been, to have put you in the position of having to confront the reality of the nature of your feelings for him. And how compromised his judgement still is, especially in sexual matters. And how very deep his struggle to be a husband and father at the same time, really, really, still is.

‘And while he may not think you passed the "Sherlock test" at the moment, you must know that you did the right thing for both of you, not just for now, but for the rest of your lives as brothers.'

.............

She was nodding now and her slender hand stretched out and sat, warm and comforting, on his bony knee.

Mycroft sighed and sat back, squinting through his glass at the fire. And nodded. Funny, that. He hadn't hired Tamara, but he seemed to have acquired her services anyway. Lucky him, he thought.

..............

After more chat on less painful topics, Tamara left, to Mycroft's not inconsiderable regret, to be driven home to Fulham by Mycroft's driver. Mycroft felt slightly sad that the evening's conversation had to be punctuated by the bombshell about himself and his brother. Not exactly the ideal start to get to know someone better, even someone as calm and apparently open minded as Tamara, who thankfully also knew Sherlock's capabilities for extreme actions and his brittle mental equilibrium.

He hoped those factors would be enough not to send her running for the hills, even supposing she had the faintest interest in him. He could sense that she WAS interested, but her professional facade was such that it was impossible to tell whether she was more interested in poking around in his head than she was in his underpants. He supposed, in this, as in all things, time would most certainly give up all truths.

He, as a result, did not make any advances, other than to suggest that they might repeat the evening again sometime?

Thankfully Tamara sounded keen to arrange another evening meal and at least the next one wouldn't centre around incest discussions...

...........

Tamara rang John early the next morning. If he'd wanted to be left in peace, that wasn't going to happen and he ought to have known better to have rung her without concealing the number, so it was a simple matter to call him.

She could hear Ishbel burbling in the background and a woman, possibly Harry, his sister, she thought?, chatting to the toddler. If only it was all about nurture and John was the only one in the picture, my job would be a lot easier, she thought, then felt a bit disloyal. Then wondered why she felt that. Had the Holmes clan got their clutches into her, too?

John sounded low and short. Perhaps also hungover. She asked after Ishbel, exchanged some small talk, and then they got down to the real purpose of the call.

'John, you need to know that Sherlock has disappeared again. The night you left, he fled. He left Parthalan with Molly and Greg, and told them some cock-and-bull story about his mother being ill. Which she is certainly not. And then he was gone. No one has seen him.'

John made a noise that Tamara couldn't really identify. Somewhere between a snort and a howl.

'I told him. I told him that he had to look after Parthalan, that was the only thing… I told him Tamara. The one and only fucking thing I asked from him. I just needed some space away from him so that I didn't do something I regretted. I have to do that, you know, when things happen, when he does things. Things that are not fair, that make me wonder if he's really capable of this, a stable permanent relationship?

‘And he just dumps his kid and runs away like a five year old? It's supposed to be Bee who's five, not him, for fuck's sake!'

...................

Tamara tried to sound reassuring.

'Mycroft has told me, John, he won't be telling anybody else than we two, but he's told me about what happened in Spain. About Mary and the hotel and the events on the hillside. And also as much as he knows, about Sherlock's earlier disappearance to Brownsea.

‘John, either the events in Spain, or the disappearances would be happily categorised by many, perhaps most, right thinking people, as completely unacceptable and unreasonable behaviour. And of the current position as having the potential for an irretrievable breakdown in your relationship, should you both let it. So I have no quarrel to make with your actions or intentions.

‘But I would ask something of you. Not because you 'owe' it to anyone in the Holmes family, or Sherlock specifically, and certainly not as a favour to me. Simply because, in years to come, as you grow old, when you look back, it will help you to be sure that you took the right decision and for the right reasons.

‘I think it's crucial, John, that somehow you find out what happened to make Sherlock run off to the island for all those weeks. From what Mycroft has said, even he's no closer to understanding that, than he was at the start, and they still don't know even exactly where he was camping, let alone why he went there?

‘Mary's death and your reaction to it, which I think was wholly natural, although you might want to work on the wording of your brutal honesty; that was a clear trigger for Sherlock's wayward and strange behaviour, but I feel that this other recent "running for the hills" may help us understand why he reacted so violently and emotionally to the events with Mary. Why he was so unable to cope, that he lost control so badly.

.....................

‘He doesn't have the same anger reservoir as you do, John and I think it's hard for you to see clearly because of that, because of how different you are, just how extraordinary this is for him, in terms of behaviour. He won't go out and drink, fight, bash a hole in a wall. Drugs, yes. Attempted suicide, possibly. But sexual advances to his brother? Who he has had the opportunity for decades to seduce, and hasn't done it?

‘That is not Sherlock thinking straight, John, especially not in the BDSM context in which he framed it. I know this is something you have feared about these brothers, their relationship being too close, sexually close and with the overtone of Mycroft as Dom and Sherlock as his Sub; but you shouldn't fear that in the normal course of events. Because Sherlock knew about Mycroft and his attraction for so many years and it didn't happen. It would have, John, if that's what they'd wanted. The Holmes family are not stayed by convention like normal people. If they want something, they take it. You know that. It makes them selfish and greedy, yes, but it also makes their actions easy to read. If Sherlock and Mycroft were going to sleep together, it would have happened a long time ago.

‘How much progress you can make with finding out about Brownsea, without Sherlock's help, given we have no idea where he is, or how well he is, I don't know, but I do feel it holds the key. Once you have that knowledge, I'd like you to try and judge Sherlock using it, and try to hold back from making any early or final judgements right now.

‘I'm not saying you will come to a different conclusion, the conclusion you reach is up to you entirely, John, but I think it might be a more nuanced and finely balanced decision to make and for the sake of your young children I think that's so very important to do.'

....................

John sighed.

He felt so tired, of all of it. Of carrying this family like a single parent, of trying to avoid the children needling Sherlock, when he was not in his very limited family-time mood, of tolerating this sort of outburst. Of trying to come to terms with Mary's death and to decide whether his feeling of responsibility for Rachel outweighed the risks to his relationship with his husband.

Of missing Sherlock's body so much, every single damn night. His smell.

Finally he sighed again. Tamara thought he sounded done with everything, but he did surprise her with his words.

'I'm assuming Rachel is staying with Mycroft, yes? Is Parthalan with Greg and Molly? If so I need to relieve them of him.'

'Both Rachel and Parthalan are with Mycroft, John. He couldn't catch up with Sherlock in time to intercept him but he came and collected Parthalan. There's some issues with bedwetting at the moments, but I imagine that's not a new thing.'

John winced at the phone.

'It isn't, no. And it's directly linked to Sherlock's absences. But I'm a bit concerned at the idea of Mycroft looking after Parthalan. Shouldn't that be my role? I am his Dad.'

'I think that's something that you will need to discuss with Mycroft personally, John. He was terribly upset - and I know you left him with Sherlock - but Mycroft was very upset that Parthalan was dumped, as Bee saw it, with Molly and Greg.

‘I'm not saying that Mycroft is going to make it difficult for you to take Parthalan home, as you say, you are legally his Dad, but I think he will resist that happening until the situation with Sherlock is clarified and more stable. I don't think he will want him to return to the household while things are so unsettled and fraught.'

John frowned. He really, really didn't like the idea of Mycroft having his son and making rules about when his own Dad could have him back. He also, unfortunately, knew the extent of Mycroft's power and influence. And that if Mycroft came clean about certain aspects of recent events and covered up others, Sherlock at least could lose custody of his son quicker than one could say "diplomatic immunity". And most of all, John didn't want to upset Parthalan any more than he was already.

He decided, for now, to muffle the bugle and keep his own counsel on what he thought.

He agreed to try to investigate Sherlock's previous absence more closely. He and Tamara parted on good terms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For background on "Abdullah" and what happened, when John found out about what he and Sherlock had been up to, (if you don't already know!), read "The Shape of Our Perfection" part 4 of the Beyond Ourselves series. But don't tell Mycroft, will you? John doesn't want to be made into fuel briquettes for the M16 ziggurat by the Thames if he can help it?


	8. Brownsea Island, Dorset

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock runs, but he can't hide....this is a short chapter but there will be another longer one published tomorrow (Saturday) !

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of drug use

Sherlock was back in Dorset. Back on the island.

He knew that meant he would be found, his returning to a previous camp and that hiding really wasn't the point of him coming here this time. He wasn't hiding, well, not as such. He just found it a sympathetic and suitably sylvan spot to go to earth like a hunted fox and to enjoy the quiet in his environment, whilst ensuring quiet in his mind with the help of some of "Sherlock’s Little Helper".

Not cocaine this time, he wasn't looking for clarity or stimulation. Far from it, quite the opposite. He wasn't chasing murderers and needing clarity. He was deeply depressed and desperate. This time he was looking for dull muffled calm. Heroin. It didn't have the aesthetic appeal of the coke, for sure, but it was serving him well so far.

He was camping well off the main tourist paths. Not for him the huge scout and guide campsite, or the hostel. He was deep in the heart of the mossy-carpeted broadleaf woodland, and it was winter so the campers were all long gone and he only had to avoid the occasional National Trust Warden. They were easy to spot in their dark green uniforms (practical and tasteful, they clearly thought) and they tended to follow certain regular routes, mostly those that led them to areas where heavy summer foot traffic from the hikers and the young campers necessitated pathway maintenance in this off-season, or where there were precious red squirrel populations to be monitored.

He'd moved camp a couple of times already, sometimes unwisely whilst still high, you could tell by the slumped and baggy shape of the tent on those occasions, but had finally settled in a damp hollow at the base of a small rocky outcrop. He was using an army surplus tent, so pitched under the overhang he was unlikely to be readily spotted. 

It was smoke, of course, from a fire, that would be his likely undoing and lead to his discovery, but he had a simple remedy for that. He didn't light one. He brought with him a few gel warmers that he could snap to heat himself when things got extra damp and cold, and the rest of the time he relied on the heroin to blot out the discomforts. And it was very, very, uncomfortable. Still, he'd been used to worse. The last crackhouse, for one. At least here the air was fresh, the stream water clean and it was quiet and he needed quiet. His head was too loud.

.............

When he came here before, it was late summer and the weather had been hot and blissful. There were more people to avoid then, in the daytime, as the ferry was still running, but frankly people crashed around so clumsily and noisily that it wasn't difficult to avoid them. He'd come then, for a specific reason, the results of which were mouldering in the remains of a bonfire he'd lit knowing it could be blamed on irresponsible day trippers.

This time, he came to forget that reason and much else besides.

He missed Parthalan. He missed him and at the same time wanted him to be a thousand miles away from him, with no danger of seeing this. He missed John too, but John was very angry at present and Sherlock was afraid of John's anger. Not physically, because John was much more in control of himself these days, the violence seeming to ebb away as the years ebbed and of course his mutilated arm from the chopper crash took much of the sting from his power. No, he was afraid of what John could take from him; put simply, his daughter, his son and most of all, John himself.

History repeating itself.

Sherlock fearing loss, behaves in a way that increases the chances of that loss.

This contradiction the result of being someone who ran from conflict, who feared losing so much that he threw over the chessboard rather than play to defeat. Someone who behaved irrationally and in extreme ways when cornered or threatened. Self preservation at all costs.

Escape. Forgetting.

John had never left him before though, not ever ever, not even for more than a few days, voluntarily. This time, unbelievably, he really had gone and worse, he had taken Ishbel with him. In one way Sherlock was glad that he had taken her, she would be safe and happy with Daddy; in another way, he knew that her being gone with him, meant that John was less likely to return to him.

He wondered how Parthalan was getting on at Molly's, with their little girl?...Penny, was it? Polly? Peggy? Polly, that must be it. Though, no doubt, Mycroft would have got wind by now, that all was not well at 221B, if nothing else he would have seen the newspapers...

................

Food was an issue, not so much because his supplies were inadequate, because they were, but because he wasn't eating what little he had brought. So far he had been here for four days and he had consumed one tube of Smarties and a protein shake mixed with water. He'd been thin before, when wasn't he, but once again the weight was dropping away.

He was tired of eating. Tired of everything except the smack.

Time for another fix. Well, it wasn't really time, but hey, he was here, the drugs were here, what difference did it make? He'd brought plenty of supplies to prep his doses, at least, and a hell of a lot of high quality Afghan poppy dust. John might have patrolled round the fields it grew in.

Time to chase that dragon.

............

Henry Knight was sitting drinking (blessedly unmolested) filter coffee in his Dartmoor kitchen, the room strangely at odds in its sleek modernity with the rest of the huge house, when his mobile rang. It echoed in the lofty room. He didn't recognise the number, but Henry these days was a much more relaxed and less jumpy soul that the man haunted by the memories of a Gigantic Hound. And the house was a little less damp, though it was still impossible to heat.

He still lived here alone.

He'd got a dog, now, though. She'd been abandoned in a box by the side of the main road when he came back from Exeter one day and he scooped her up and took her in. The vet thought she was about six months old and it was impossible to tell what breed she was supposed to be. Should have plenty of hybrid vigour, cos she looked like an unholy alliance of about four different breeds. 

He called her Pippi, after Pippi Longstocking, because she slept on his bed upside down with her head at the bottom like the girl in the books. Sadly, that did mean he had the full benefit of the frequent farts, but he didn't mind the occasional smelly whiffle, not really. He thought it would be good practice if he ever found a partner. Not that he wanted a farting partner particularly, but after the farts, snoring or talking in their sleep would seem quite bearable, he thought.

So he answered the phone, being a man with no head full of hallucinogen shit any more and, what's more, being a man with a dog to keep him safe and was astonished to hear the voice of Sir John Hamish Watson.

'Wow, John. It's great to hear from you. How are you? How's Sherlock, I read about you two getting married..? Congratulations!'

He was cut off mid-flow. Informed briskly that actually, things were quite a lot less that bloody ideal, Henry and could he do John a favour, a big one, if he wasn't busy?

In truth, John had contacted Henry as he was the only person he knew that owed them a favour, who was also rich enough not to have to work a day-job and hence likely to be free to help at short notice. But he made Henry feel flattered and special nonetheless. John was in Army Captain mode and Henry jumped to attention.

Henry practically purred with enthusiasm to help. Sherlock had given him his life and his sanity back. He'd do anything for the guy. Yes, of course he knew the island. And it was a lot easier to cover than a search on his beloved Dartmoor would be and he'd done that sort of moor tramping all his life. He'd been there, to Brownsea, before too, several times, on Scout camping trips.

What was it he was looking for?

'Clues, Henry. Clues about why Sherlock chose to go there for six weeks. Clues about why he went anywhere for six weeks.' John himself couldn't do it, looking after Ishbel, as the campsites were all closed for the winter. It would be an illicit rough camping case, at best, while Henry was there, he said.

................

Henry felt very sorry for John. He wasn't a father himself, not yet, he was still awkward with women though he had high hopes of the verger from St Dunstan's on the Moor, but he could hear the anguish in John's voice and the quiet desperation. He didn't mind camping, not on an island with red squirrels and no minefields or chemical soups to alter one's mind. Just wildlife and trees, beaches and heathland.

He agree to set off that same afternoon. He'd been watching the racing, it was at long last the chasing season, flat racing was like watching paint dry, but to date his fancies had, in order, unseated rider, declined to start and fallen. Why have money if you can't use its privileges to kick off the traces on a whim like this, was his mantra.

It was almost like doing one of Sherlock's cases: this time, it was Sherlock himself they were seeking, his motivations and movements. He could drop Pippi off with his Aunt in Tavistock, although Pippi wouldn't be impressed as she wouldn't be able to whiffle there; she'd be in a basket in the conservatory and like it.

....................

John texted Mycroft. He didn't want to speak to the man. He wasn't sure when he might want to, if ever. Texting was best. He told him that Henry was off to Brownsea. He asked how Parthalan was.

In return he received a long text, informing him that Parthalan was much LESS upset now he was in the stable household of Eaton Square and that Kirsty was taking care of both him and Rachel. He thanked John for asking after him and hoped Ishbel was well. 

He opined that he thought it might be of 'utility' if John were to have a thorough search of 221B Baker Street to see if there were any clues there and that John might as well stop wandering the groves and byways of olde England dragging his daughter around like a man selling saucepans from a bicycle and stay at 221B. Since his delightful and reckless brother had disappeared again, one of them may as well make use of the marital home and amenities, as well as it being more settling for Ishbel.

Not a short text, but then Mycroft disliked texting; he had clearly decided not to ring John, however, which showed he had at least some sense.

.............

John asked when Parthalan ('my son, you know, Mycroft?’), would be coming home?

The reply came.

'Not for now, John. I do not want him dragged through this. He will stay here until Sherlock is located and you two have sorted out your problems.'

'Problems that you helped to create, Mycroft.'

'John, John. You delude yourself. The only "problems" I helped to create, were your beloved children, if I may remind you.

‘The problems you and Sherlock face now, are matters solely down to yourselves. You, for being stupid enough to have feelings for your murderous bitch of an ex-wife and for being even more stupid enough to tell him that; then to want to take on her child. Him, for not having learned the first thing about how loving relationships work, that he doesn't have to pay in kind for people to help him and that the love of his son should be a far more powerful narcotic for him by now than his chosen drugs.'

He left this hanging in the air like a bad smell between them. John knew he wasn't entirely wrong, but didn't want him to be right. Because if he was right, then in all of this, as hinted by Tamara and Mycroft alike, the person being the real shit right now was himself...

John didn't know what to do. Mycroft was supposed to have walked away from interfering, from meddling, but John couldn't stop Sherlock from screwing up so badly that Mycroft either felt the opportunity to leap in, or more charitably, feel that he had no choice but to do so.

John didn't want to lose his son.

John didn't want his son caught up in the conflict between him and Sherlock. Or to see his father in the grip of addiction. He didn't want to lose Sherlock. To the drugs or to a slow death of their relationship.

He decided to search 221B tomorrow. But tonight, Harry was going to babysit and he, John, was going to get monumentally drunk. He thought the world would look a lot better when he was rat arsed in the lounge bar of some establishment or other.

..............

Henry arrived on Brownsea late that evening, makeshift camping gear in rucksack and hoping that the weather forecast was mistaken about the thunderstorms and gales.

He was more fortunate than Sherlock, in that he'd looked up his old Scout Master, now living a genteel retirement in a lemon painted town house in Paignton, but still in touch with the higher-ups in the Scout Movement. With Cecil's help and contacts, Henry had been able to negotiate the prize of a key to the scout hostel. He'd brought the camping gear in case of hitches, but it looked as if he might be in luck, as the fisherman he'd been told to ask for to take him across, waved a key at him as he walked over to the day boat.

After the half-hour crossing, he waved the man off and tramped off up to the hostel. It wasn't hard to find. The estate cottages of the old village had been demolished long ago, so there was only the hostel and the campsite and the castle left as landmarks.

Letting himself into the hostel, Henry dug out his provisions, mainly of bread and cheese, soups and drinks, notably hot chocolate and explored his billet. The views were somewhat blocked by the treeline but still amazing.

The next morning, after a night's sleep to envy, he set off, into the "Interior", feeling quite Crusoe-esque.

 

\------End of Chapter Eight-------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> notes:
> 
> Brownsea Island is off the Dorset coast and is owned and managed by the National Trust. The castle on the island is owned by the Department store group John Lewis Plc for use by employees. Most camping on the island is restricted to Scouts and Guides and other youth groups. But it is possible for families to camp there by arrangement, in bell tents. There are half hourly ferries from the mainland in summer.
> 
> It is one of the few places in England to still see red squirrels, the species having mainly been out-competed and passed disease by the larger non-native grey squirrel. (Another good place is Formby Squirrel reserve, near Southport in Lancashire).
> 
> People used to live on the island in a model village on a country estate. Of thirty who went to fight in the Great War (World War One), just six returned.....
> 
> http://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/brownsea-island/


	9. "Get into the car, please, Sir John....."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John proves that he is not immune to very stupid mistakes. Sherlock and his secrets come to light. The cause of Mary's car crash is revealed. Mycroft and Tamara edge closer.

John ended up going out to a pub that night with Greg and a posse of cheap suited, sharp haircutted and nice smelling younger lads and a few women, from the Met. They were in a dark, wood-panelled old pub in Bloomsbury, not far from the British Library. John had got there first and was doing some serious drinking; already half cut, to be frank, by the time the lads and girls turned up.

Four hours later, after numerous games of pool and some of darts, the party was breaking up, with mutters of 'early shift' and 'who's for a kebab?'. Greg made his excuses too, having to get back to Molly and Poppy, checking with John that he was 'ok to get a taxi?'

John was ok, actually, at that point, and Greg left, happy his friend was safe and fine, but, somewhat aided and abetted by his remaining four hardcore companions, John carried on drinking heavily for a long, long time after Greg's departure.

...............

At what specific point he started pouring out his many sorrows to the not entirely unattractive young male PC on the barstool next to him, John was unlikely to remember later. His companion was tall and slim, with wavy dark hair and while there ARE probably some heterosexual men as well groomed as this one, John was getting all sorts of signals that the apple of his drunken eye was decidedly not straight.

John must have internalised these signals, though he certainly didn't remember when he began stroking the man's thigh or gripping his shoulder and whispering Lewd Things into his ear. (Both of which he apparently did).

Nor did he retain a memory of when the man went to the gents toilets and John weaved across the bar and followed him and once in the relative privacy of the gents, they stuck their tongues down each other's throats, and ground up against one another like it was Heaven or G.A.Y. Back then, way back, on a sweaty, summer Friday night.

The gut punch of feeling another man's prick, a stranger's prick, hard up against his own, through the rough denim of their jeans was dangerously erotic; it was more like the Army. It was something like the first time Sholto had done more with John than press him with small kisses. In fact, very like that moment that came at last, after months and months of dancing around each other, when Sholto finally got his act together? His courage up, he practically dragged John behind the mess tent and devoured him with his mouth - and the desert camo had rasped and scraped in just this way.

That day, that memorable precious day in the sand, when John had known, had finally known, as he took in Sholto's smooth glorious length and did his duty for his beloved commander, that he was going to be bisexual not just in his head and his heart, but in his actions, in real life too.

....................

And after another hour of increasingly familiar and tactile behaviour, according to the remaining three police officers, John left the pub, alone with this tall, dark, unknown man.

Some "reports", later throughly suppressed by persons unknown but Very Senior, suggested a passing resemblance, no more than that, of the young policeman, to a younger version of a certain consulting detective.....

...................

John was drunk enough to physically function and to make decisions about what kebab he didn't want (that would be ruling out all of them, even the chilli one with extra garlic sauce, especially that one), but way too drunk to make decisions that, sober, he might regret. He appeared, though,a lot more functional than he actually was, which was unfortunate, as his companion, Ed, genuinely thought he was sober enough to give informed consent.

Ed thought John was lovely, he didn't recognise him (otherwise he wouldn't have come within a mile of Holmes' husband), and he didn't seem to care about John's disfigured right arm. Ed suspected that John was a bit of a dirty bastard in bed, and he intended to find out if he was right. From the feel of the evidence in his hands, Ed certainly didn't think he was going to be disappointed.

They kissed dirtily and staggered off, failing to find taxis. There were taxis around, they just really didn't fancy the look of this pissed up pair. So they walked, and groped and then they walked again. Ed walked, John staggered.

...................

Eventually, they ended up at Temple Gardens and, their bodies close and wanting, John kissing more roughly and more demanding with his hands now, which was EXACTLY what Ed was hoping for, took them to a bench, where he unfastened Ed's trousers and pants and dragged them roughly down to his knees. Then his hands fumbled with the unfamiliar underwear, but John's shaking hands finally drew out Ed's full, hard and weeping cock and, kneeling on the ground, John moved forward to take its length between his lips.

Ed groaned deeply and had his eyes closed, anticipating the sweet pleasure to come. John, in his inebriation, was focused on the prize and trembling with the thought of reciprocation and possibly more later. It had been too long and he longed to - well, yeah, to fuck someone. And he had no idea where his estranged husband was, other than shooting up.

In truth, he had no husband, did he? Not really. They didn't fuck. They didn't talk. They couldn't agree on parenting their children. And Sherlock ran away to shoot up when times got bad, even when the bad times were his own fault. He was like a feral cat. Let you stroke him, eat your food, then spray in the hallway and crap in the bathtub.

Ed was sweet, pretty and here; John suspected Ed wouldn't mind if "Captain John Watson" made an appearance later tonight. Because John was planning a "later". There was no doubt about it.

...............

As a result of their diligent concentration on the "task in hand", or rather, shortly to be in mouth, neither John nor Ed noticed the inevitable large black limousine circling the gardens. Not even when it (very illegally) drove straight into the Gardens and across the grass at speed, slewing to a halt at great cost to the manicured lawns of the Temple. The Benchers would not be at all pleased.

A car horn hooted loudly, making John look up just as Ed's dripping cock was about to meet his mouth. He rubbed his hand over his eyes, blinded by the headlights. Oh God… not NOW. Not here. Please to God… FUCKING HELL. Fucking bastard fuckface Mycroft.

Mycroft wasn't there in person. The uniformed driver got out and quietly opened the door. John peered in, but instead of a face like a wet weekend, and Mycroft looking utterly done with him, John was instead handed a phone. He groaned and brought it to his ear. 

'Mycroft.'

A crisp, hatefully silky voice came down the line. At 4am. Did this bloody Kraken never sleep?

'Get in the car, Sir John. Assuming, of course, you are able to sit down at present… ah yes, of course you are, Still on the nibbles. The entrée was yet to come, although you were clearly planning for a full soup to nuts seven course banquet.'

He'd used John's title deliberately, John knew, rubbing it in. John was asked to pass the phone to the unfortunate PC, who was rapidly trying to tuck himself away before making a hasty retreat. John didn't know what was said to the man, but he assumed it was some kind of not-very-veiled threat that if anything of this matter was ever referred to, let alone discussed, he would be wise not to contemplate the consequences and that his career would be "greatly enhanced by taking this warning seriously".

Ed seemed to have no trouble at all getting the message. He was taking it all very seriously indeed. He was completely freaked out and looked at John like he was little more than jailbait, shook his head at the tyre tracks skewed across the hallowed turf and practically ran for his life, out of Temple Gardens, up towards the Strand, to relative safety from these scary nutters down by the river. He would not be filing a report. He had not been here.

.............

John stared at the open car door for a while. But in the end of course, he got into the car, since there seemed to be no other choice and his flagging cock was clearly going nowhere tonight save accompanying its owner to his doom.

He was taken in the limousine to, inevitably, Eaton Square. John had never been inside the tall immaculate house and he wasn't sure he wanted to now, but he knew Parthalan and Rachel were here, and that alone made it a little less daunting.

Less enticing, of course, was the patrician figure of Mycroft Holmes standing expectantly in the doorway, looking very tired and coldly disgusted; armed with a sheaf of photographs that made even the subject of them wince with shame, when they were scattered on the console table in the hallway. The photos spread out, much the same as the subjects of them. How had they even got that angle? if Sherlock ever saw these… John swallowed hard.

'Yeah, OK, Mycroft. I really don't appreciate being followed and photographed.'

'Forgive me, John, but what you want is of… let me just check my records…. approximately… zero concern of mine, at present. And should you have desired more privacy for sucking cock, you should have remained in the traditional rendezvous of the public house facilities, to finish what you… started.

‘What is, instead, of great concern to me, John, is the fact that, instead of trying to help find your missing husband, my brother and peacefully resolve the issues between you, enabling your family to be reunited; you are instead choosing to fellate a stranger you picked up at random from a bar, leaving your own daughter in the care of your alcoholic sister and your son having not seen either of his parents for days.'

..............

Mycroft now walked up very close to John's face and looked down at him. Normally this was a very bad idea, to invade the small-but-deadly army man's personal space. And that, of course, was exactly why Mycroft Holmes was doing it.

John realised he was being drawn into a trap with Mycroft's provocation.

He wants me to snap, doesn't he? Wants me to flip out and do something violent? He's waiting for me to be lured into his web and then he will have it all conveniently on film, because this place is wired for sound, visuals and probably a second lunar landing and then, later, he will hold up the data stick and say to the family court that regrettably, neither parent is fit and proper; but luckily, how luckily, there is an eminently suitable and responsible family member to ensure a safe and loving upbringing for that little boy sleeping upstairs.

And he could have stopped me doing any of it, at any point, but he's chosen to let me dig my own grave, because he wants Sherlock to walk away from the marriage.

All that stuff he said to me outside the court, the day we got custody confirmed for Parthalan, all the stuff his Dad warned him about, he's inching back to all that control and possession stuff he said he'd left behind. Get Sherlock away from me, closer to him and then he has Parthalan too. Send me off into the sunset with Ishbel, a knighthood and a mangled arm and Project Holmes continues uninterrupted with Bee its shining star.

.............

Not all of this was true. John was taking his conclusions too far.

Mycroft wanted Parthalan, it's true and he wanted to keep closer tabs on Sherlock, who he felt was in danger of disintegration again and who he thought John was failing to adequately understand and act appropriately, by not immediately ruling out taking on Rachel. So some of it was true and Mycroft knew John knew what he was up to. And that John wasn't falling for it. So he retreated to plain threats.

'I told you NOT to hurt him, John.'

'Me, not hurt him? Do any of you know, how much he has hurt me? How much both of you have? Do you? Do you even fucking care?'

Mycroft shook his head. Shook it over and over.

'My brother is doing what he is doing because he is ill, John. He is ILL. It is not all about the drugs. It is not all about his relationship with me. It is about you and he, and your craven insistence on pushing him over the edge with parental responsibility to assuage your own guilt about Mary and Rachel.

‘You, who, on the other hand, are behaving like a dog on heat, engaging in sexual practices with strange men and risking both your own and my brother's health in doing so. And while you are trying to exchange seminal bodily fluids with twinky Young Sherlock Holmes lookalikes, you are WASTING TIME, John. Your time and mine too. Time my brother does not have, for you to waste.

............

Mycroft slammed his hand down onto the table. He was genuinely angry, for once. It gave John pause for thought.

'It matters little now, John, in any case. I've already sent my own people into Baker Street while you were out looking for cock. They are taking the place apart. If there's any clue to find, they'll find it.'

John was furious.

'That's our home, Mycroft. You have no right!... '

'I have EVERY right, John. Quite apart from the fact that the Holmes Trust owns the property, this is my brother's life on the line. You should have been there, searching it, yourself, as I asked you to do, instead of cheating on my brother when he is at his lowest ebb.

‘You had better hope, John, that we find him alive and that he is up to dealing with knowledge of your infidelity; because if he isn't, then it won't be him being sent on a suicide mission in Eastern Europe this time. That's if we bother to go to that degree of cover story.

‘If my brother dies, do not expect to outlive him. I give you my word on that. Depend upon it.

‘You will stay here tonight. My people have called Harry. Parthalan will be glad to see you in the morning and Ishbel will join us tomorrow. You will all stay here, under my protection, until Sherlock is safe.'

'By stay under your protection, you mean "armed house arrest", then?', said John sulkily, glancing at the figures who had appeared at the door, silently, as they had been speaking.

Mycroft smiled that insincere smile. Mycroft clearly was completely unconcerned by any accusations John could throw. Because he had the perfect ammunition to destroy John now, should he deem it necessary and in Sherlock's interests.

'I wouldn't put it like that, precisely. More damage limitation. But, all the same, I really wouldn't recommend that you try to leave. They're very bored, my people. Just looking for some excitement. And I am simply keen to ensure your safety and that of your children, and to ensure no further "unsuitable temptation".

....................

John slept poorly, despite the luxurious surroundings, but it was a relief to see Parthalan at the breakfast table the next day. Bee was excited to see him although John knew that once that wore off, his own reappearance would prompt questions about when Sherlock might return.

And then Rachel came into the room and suddenly it felt like someone had kicked him in the guts. She was Mary and she was Moriarty too, all rolled into one and how unbearable a combination that was. He was yearning to embrace her as Mary's daughter, and at the same time, utterly transfixed by the elements of Jim Moriarty he could see. Both of them stamped their stock plainly as their own.

John shook himself, and tried to just see her as a normal young girl. She was self assured, well groomed and intelligent. He could also see that she was settling in here, at Eaton Square, with the air of someone who is used to making her nest in new locations, dependent on the kindness of strangers.

...............

Over breakfast Mycroft told John, that he now had evidence that Mary's death was definitely not an accident. His agents had found several small jagged edged pieces of metal some way back from the point at which Mary's car had crashed through the barrier. And a foreign motorcycle had gone up the road a few minutes before.

When the metal pieces, which resembled jagged teeth, were examined and researched, they were eventually identified (and it took some time) by one of the ex-cop staffers at M16 as coming from a type of portable stinger device, like those the police use to forcibly stop stolen speeding cars. Fling it across the road, burst the tyres, then pull it back. No evidence it was ever there, except this one must have been damaged, because it did leave a trace. 

If the local police had done their own search, they still might have missed it. But with a Mycroft ordered Six fingertip search, they found it.

It hadn't been the police who put it there. The police would never deploy on a road like the one Mary was on, with its hairpins and precipitous ravine, it was far too dangerous.

But someone had.

John felt only sorrow and anger, that someone had felt able to take Rachel's mother away from her in this way. He looked across the table at the girl, who didn't seem to grow more distressed at hearing the news about her mother. She'd already decided that Mary had been killed, John concluded. Now she just knows more about how it happened. And she trusts Mycroft to ensure they don't get away with it.

............

Parthalan tapped John on the knee.

'When's Papa coming? Is it today? I found some really big beetles in the garden and I wanted to show him...'

John hugged his son to his chest, kissing the top of his head. Buried his head in his son's soft black curls. Ishbel would be here soon. But not Sherlock. The family complete, except for the huge jagged hole right at its heart.

'I don't know, Bee. I just don't know… Soon, I expect. Very soon. He......he just needed to go away for a while? To think about things, so he can be happy.'

John couldn't bear the look on Parthalan's face, which was of a small boy who was starting, just starting, to give up trust in the adults in his life. He bit his lip hard, stroking Bee's hair and stared out of the window to the terrace.

.............

It was, in the end, much sooner than any of them expected, that the mysteries both of the whereabouts of the runaway and the reason for his previous flights were solved.

There were calls both from Baker Street, and from Henry on the island, later that day.

The lead investigator at Baker Street, not by coincidence Sherlock's former housemaster at Eton College, Julian, rang, while frowning down at the inventory with which Mycroft mysteriously seemed to have been able to provide his team. John didn't ask how Mycroft had itemised everything in the house, but was seethingly angry that it covered everything down to their most private items including underwear and sex toys. Mycroft couldn't have cared less about John's scruples given his recent conduct.

Mycroft spoke quietly for a while on the phone, and then covered the mouthpiece and asked John, who at the time had hands covered in glitter (for a project Rachel had devised that seemed to involve dried pasta and glue everywhere), "when and where was the last time he saw Sherlock's skull?"

John stared at him.

'We moved it, well, Sherlock did. Years ago. From the mantelpiece to the back of the cupboard next door to the fireplace. It was still there nine months ago, I know that, because I got the Christmas decorations out, and it was behind those. I haven't looked since then.'

Mycroft frowned.

‘It's not there any more, John. Not anywhere in 221B. Nor in Sussex - yes, we have searched the cottage too, not that it took long to do that, you really should get some electricity down there, it's a death trap with all those lamps.'

John frowned. The skull, the skull of Sherlock's childhood abuser, Jonathan Lang, was missing.

Had Sherlock taken it somewhere? If so, why?

.........

Then Henry Knight rang Mycroft after lunch.

He'd found Sherlock. Alive. High. Shouty. "Quite abusive".

But not just Sherlock. He was at his old camp, from the six week "lost" period and to the edge of the clearing, Henry found the burnt remains of Sherlock's bonfire from that time, a blackened mixture of half burnt sticks and a perimeter of large rocks. There were papers in amongst it, he discovered, wet and soggy but some seemed not completely burned. He'd retrieved and bagged up the contents in Pippi's perfumed poop scoop bags, which were all he had with him. He didn't try to look at them. He had the feeling that whatever had led Sherlock to come here, it wasn't good, and it wasn't any of his business.

And there was a human skull in the tent, too, by Sherlock's damp pillow. It made him jump when he saw it. A skull, being used as a makeshift sharps bin. This wasn't great, Henry thought. It made him realise that he wasn't the only one who had struggled with spectres that tormented; unlike him, Sherlock appeared still to be doing so.

He was bringing both Sherlock and the evidence back to London. But he wanted to warn them, Sherlock didn't come very willingly, Henry had the bruises to show for it when he'd taken possession of the drugs stash; nor was Sherlock in a very good physical state.

Mycroft's hand gripped the phone tightly even after Henry had long rung off. At length, John quietly got up, and in something of an echo of removing Sherlock's mobile from his breast pocket, he gently unfurled Mycroft's fingers from the phone, and sat him down on the nearest chair.

.............

It was very late evening by the time Henry's Range Rover pulled up outside the house. The three children had been safely tucked away in the bedrooms looking over the gardens at the back of the house. An agent was stationed at the top of the stairs, to prevent nosy small people doing any nocturnal rambling. Mycroft did not want them seeing Sherlock looking… well… how he expected he might look.

He was very glad of the precaution, when he saw the state of his brother. His eyes told him "heroin, not coke", his nose told him "living rough, no toilets, no food, wet through". Sherlock looked as if heroin was the only thing he had consumed in his absence; it wasn't, so far as Mycroft knew, known for its nutritional qualities. He found it hard to contain his frustration that they were still playing this tune when his brother was married, in his forties, with two children.

And Sherlock didn't know, yet, about John and the other man. 

Mycroft had decided that it would be preferable if John told him, since Sherlock might not believe Mycroft and demand proof; Mycroft wasn't at all sure his brother was strong enough to see those photographs, which made Mycroft's own flesh crawl. In any case, contrary to John's belief, Mycroft did not want to see his marriage to Sherlock fail, if only because it would be potentially so disastrous for his brother that his life would be in danger again. However, he was not prepared to support John at any price. If John staying became more toxic than John gone, then John would be gone.

................

Sherlock needed quite a bit of help to make it from the car into the house and was marched off by several well built agents to go and shower. Fond as he was of his brother, Mycroft wasn't talking to him in that state, nor was he inflicting him on his plush cream carpets in the drawing room. There were limits to brotherly love, and the fate of the deep-pile Wilton was one of his.

He made sure agents were in the bathroom while Sherlock showered, despite his angry protestations. He was having no repeat of the wrist-slashing episode of half a decade earlier and if that meant that Sherlock had to expose his tackle to strangers, so be it. Privacy and dignity was for non-junkies.

John had stood to one side, while all this was going on. His heart ached with relief to see Sherlock return alive, raged with anger at him for doing drugs yet again; the same heart dripped with dread guilt at the confession of his own that was coming and even deeper dread at the likely outcome of those words.

............

Mycroft had received a call from Tamara, to arrange their dinner date, but instead, given the latest developments, had asked her to come over, briefing her about the latest unsavoury happenings concerning John and the news from Brownsea and 221B. She arrived soon after Sherlock went off for his shower, straight from the gym as she'd clearly been swimming. She swam a hundred lengths, three times a week. It showed.

Mycroft had been reading through the letters that Henry had retrieved, while Sherlock was safely occupied being sluiced down, and his face paled when he did so. None had survived complete, but their content was clear from the remaining sections. There was a common, poisonous theme to them all.

The others looked at him. Finally he looked up.

'It appears', he said, to the room in general, 'that we have solved the mystery of why Sherlock went off in the summer for all those weeks. Henry, I think you may prefer not to be present for this. It concerns Sherlock's somewhat troubled past.'

Henry looked at John, and then at Mycroft, and whilst not the sharpest knife in the drawer, understood that this was a firm if politely worded dismissal. 

'Yeah....I'll ...um....just go and help Cook with......um...something .....cooking....'

And he disappeared, looking very relieved.

Once he was firmly out of earshot, Mycroft turned to John. 

'These are letters from Helen Lang, who is the mother of Sherlock's abuser, Jonathan Lang.

'The letters, or what pieces I can discern, are all from her, and they may, of course, be the product of an ageing and disintegrating mental capacity. They start a few weeks before Sherlock fled to the island.

‘In them, she demands that her son's skull to be returned to her family, which request many might find some sympathy with. However, and this part will not evoke sympathy, she also engages in something of a vicious and hysterical tirade against Sherlock for "seducing her son" and "enticing Jonathan into a relationship" with him, "into perverted and unnatural practices".

'She also seems to have formed the view that Jonathan's death was anything but the accident the coroner found it to be.'

He threw the taped together fragments, stuck to card, onto the table. 

..........

The minutes ticked by. Tamara had been reading through the letters and John too, now. They were truly disgusting and vile, the venom almost dripping out of them, the language was ripe, especially for an old woman.

John was shaking his head. Why would anyone do this? What possible reason? All these years later, too? How could anyone ever say, that a violent sexual relationship of assault between a twenty-five year old man, and an eleven year old boy, was the "fault" of the boy? How, in anyone's right mind, could he ever, ever be the seducer? 

How did a mother's love come to be so blind, that they could come to see it this way?

And yet, John knew, these letters would have played right into the very weakest, frailest corner of Sherlock's mind; the little poisonous, damaged part that thought, had always thought; that he must have done something to "lead the man on", as Jonathan had told him he did. That his periodic physical arousal during the abuse was all part of that; that he was, he must be, in some sense, exhibiting some pheromone, some scent, something, somehow. And that this something meant that, in part at least, he was to blame, being a tease, a temptation; that he should therefore bear responsibility not only for his own sexual abuse as a child, but for the death ("murder") of the man, at the orders of his brother, three years later.

Tamara said little, just reading and pursing her lips and occasionally shaking her head.

John knew she was someone who would not speak until she had something of worth to say, and when she spoke, her words would surely help all of them. He also noticed Mycroft looking across at Tamara and was struck by the softness of his glance.

"Well, well, well", John thought... That would be a turn-up for anyone's books… and he wondered if Tamara knew...

............

Finally, several hours later, once Sherlock was proclaimed odour-free and wrapped up in a pair of Mycroft's plain navy silk pyjamas and a tan flannel dressing gown, he was installed on the largest sofa in the drawing room.

Once Sherlock was back in the room, casting black looks at the three Inquisitors gathered around him, they all quickly realised, looking at him, that he was probably not in any realistic state to be questioned at all tonight. He had clearly started to suffer from withdrawal symptoms and was clenching and unclenching his fingers and toes and shaking. He was also sensitive to light. He would not meet any of their gazes. Especially not John's.

Mycroft decreed that it would all wait for the morning, frustrating though that was.

Then there was a very awkward pause? John and Sherlock, and bedrooms...

Mycroft looked at John. John shrugged.

'I think he's going to need a room alone, but if theres a linked room, that would be useful. So I can monitor him overnight and during the rest of the withdrawal. Ideally I'd get him off to rehab but there's talking that needs to happen first, so...'

Mycroft looked relieved.

'Of course John. Take Malmesbury and Athelney, they're linked by a bathroom and on the ground floor. I don't think my junkie brother will make the stairs tonight.'

.............

After John followed the men supporting either side of Sherlock to get him along the corridor and into the bedroom, Tamara was left alone with Mycroft.

She smiled at him.

'I know I haven't really said anything this evening...'

'It doesn't matter. You came, which was the important thing and when the time is right, you will help him, help them, decide what to do. And by being here, it means Sherlock will not have to repeat any of this painful revelation again, when he sees you.'

'Even though he's officially sacked me?'

'Dear lady, Sherlock can't sack you. He doesn't have the power. It was I who hired you. I who am paying your fees. And I have no intention at all of dispensing with any of your invaluable services.'

Tamara laughed, her low dark laugh and Mycroft smiled and offered her a drink. And then, as she sipped it, she suggested that the wooden chair he was perched on didn't look terribly comfortable, and perhaps he should join her on the sofa?

It was the first clear sign that she had given, that she sensed his interest was more than professional courtesy, and was perhaps not entirely unsympathetic to it. But then, Mycroft mused, as he sat next to her and chatted about this and that, he should have expected nothing less than for her to have seen it. She was more perceptive of human emotion than all the rest of them added together.

When she left, later that evening, to be driven home, she willingly offered her cheek when Mycroft went to shake her hand; he impulsively pressed a small soft kiss against the warm flesh of her cheek. It reminded him of a peach, soft and warm.

................

He was taking this slower than he'd ever taken any relationship, not that there'd been that many in reality. Because he felt as though this was important, now. To get it right. To treat her properly.

How that equated, with the current "other side" of his lifestyle, his other two sexual partners, the BDSM, all that; he really didn't know. It might not be quite as excruciating a discussion to be facing as John Watson was staring at with Sherlock, but he was still wracked with nerves.

She kept her cards so close to that lovely chest. Would she want exclusivity? Likely. Women usually would.

Would she even want a relationship knowing his history?

Could he give up his Dom activities (possible? Not sure), or break off all contact with Prince Wasim (not possible, he thought he could cease the physical side if he had to, but he would never drop Wasim as a friend).

For now, he waved Tamara goodbye, and stood in the hallway, the big house filled with more life than any time since the Sixties when his parents used to have mad riotous parties here, captured in slides and grainy colour prints, in the days before they had children and those children came to harm and made everything here dark and quiet and empty and the parties stopped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for this chapter
> 
> "Do I Wanna Know?' 
> 
> \- Arctic Monkeys


	10. Confrontation - and a day of reckoning...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John are forced to confront John's recent behaviour and work out what it means for their marriage and how things ended up at this point. 
> 
> And Sherlock learns some new information about his childhood abuser. Some shocking information.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some smut in this chapter.

John spent a restless night, getting up every two hours to attend to Sherlock. By the early hours his husband was sweating and his body twisted as he (in vain) tried to avoid the agonising, racking cramps. John hated seeing this, hated watching it, this self-inflicted, needless torment. All he could do, was to keep wringing out warm damp flannels, and try to replace the sheets at least every few hours with clean, cool dry ones. Mycroft had clearly been down this road with Sherlock more than once, as there were great piles of neatly stacked sheets, pillow cases and blankets on the low settle at the end of the bed. A damning indictment of Sherlock's life, that such things should become a matter of ghastly routine, John grimly concluded.

He did try to get Sherlock to drink, but the only time he succeeded, Sherlock vomited it up almost immediately. He had more success with ice cubes on the tongue, so settled for that, until he realised that the dry heaving vomiting that followed would be more comfortable with something to bring up and so went back to the water and bucket for him to be sick in. In a way, John was glad to be able to do this kind of menial, unpleasant task for Sherlock. He felt horrible now, full of guilt and remorse about his gutter infidelity, and now that he wasn't drunk anymore, just hungover, he felt incapable of continuing the lifestyle of a separated man, free to grope the nearest attractive piece of ass.

He was truly glad now that Mycroft had stopped him when he did. Now that Sherlock was here, back in his orbit, he couldn't imagine what would ever have possessed him to contemplate screwing around. But he hadn't been here, of course. And he hadn't come back voluntarily. And the business with Mycroft in Spain… whatever Tamara said, that was so fucking hard to take. Just the thought of it made him feel queasy. He thumped his fist against his forehead to try to empty his brain of images that were persistent and unwanted.

..................

John knew that he and Sherlock both had some painful soul searching to do. He wondered if the end result would be a Mycroftian dream, of a dependent brother and a resident nephew at Eaton Square, or if he and Sherlock really could actually rescue their marriage from this point? To something real, not just a chilly accommodation for the sake of the Work?

He looked across at Sherlock. He was sleeping, but not peacefully it seemed, frown lines twitching and small breaths escaping, sounding almost cross, offended even. Exhaustion had overridden the withdrawal spikes, for now. John placed his hand gently on Sherlock's pale shoulder. It felt warm, almost too hot, but wonderful. At the touch, Sherlock's breathing immediately eased, and became steady and even. He could feel it. 

John knew he might not get this chance again. If Sherlock ended their relationship once he learned of John's conduct. If Mycroft, God forbid, showed him the photographs… this could be the last time he might get to touch Sherlock in the quiet private darkness of a bedroom.

He couldn't bear the thought.

He laid his head against Sherlock's side and started to cry quietly. He wept long into the night, and then, after the tears had run dry, he curled himself tightly around his husband's skinny, sweat-soaked frame. He hated the thought, that in a few hours it would be morning and his blind stupidity would be exposed to the person he could least bear to know it of him. He wrapped himself tighter still, and prayed silently to any being that would listen to hear his pleas.

.............

Breakfast was a late and scrappy affair the next morning. The children, all three by now, were noisy and over-excited, especially Parthalan, his having heard someone say that Sherlock was back.

John had to invoke Strict Dad mode to re-establish calm. Ishbel was told off for throwing more food than she ate. Parthalan was told that eating at mealtimes was a requirement and not an option, and he was to eat at least one bowl of cornflakes.He told the children that they would see Papa later, but this morning the adults had important matters to discuss, so they were going to the London Aquarium with Kirsty and Mrs Hudson, the latter having volunteered as she'd always wanted to go. Parthalan was almost ready to explode, but the presence of Mrs Hudson and her best Very Stern look was enough to contain the whirling dervish a little longer.

..................

Once the children were safely dispatched, Mycroft turned to John, and asked him how he would like to proceed.

John was pale and tense. He kept clutching at his ravaged right arm, almost as if it was a new injury, but didn't seem conscious of doing it. 

'I think Sherlock and I need to talk alone, for some time. Before the inquisition about the drugs and the running off. I can't risk leaving this any longer.'

Mycroft actually, unbelievably, looked slightly sorry for him. John wasn't sure he could imagine anything worse than being pitied by Mycroft Holmes. He looked down at his shoes. Stupid, traitorous shoes. Stupid, traitorous body. Stupid, John.

'Very well, John. I think that is a wise choice. Your first wise choice for some time, perhaps? I will arrange for security to to be outside the door. There is a panic button on the side of each chair arm, and under all four corners of the table, as well as under the mantelpiece and beneath both windowsills. I do not expect any trouble, but it is as well to be prepared, since I am of course expecting your revelations to come as a complete shock to my brother. 

However, I will not labour the point. I can see from your face that you understand the gravity of this.'

John said nothing, just clamped his lips together, nodded, walked into the drawing room and waited for Sherlock, who was up, but had not wanted breakfast.

.............

Sherlock was up indeed, earlier than John in fact that morning, at six, though John hadnt known that. John had checked him at four, to find the fever which had disturbed the later part of the night, abating for a while at least, and had then fallen asleep on the bathroom floor. When Sherlock went in to puke up his latest ill-advised glass of water, he found his estranged husband lying sleeping on the bathmat. Sherlock fetched a towel and lifted John's head to put a pillow underneath it.

It was as he leaned down to tuck the edge neatly underneath, that he smelt it. His nostrils were highly attuned to all manner of perfumes and smells in John's sandy hair, and he could detect an individual's scent at seven paces, even if John had just been in the vicinity. It hardly took his highly trained bloodhound nose to smell another man's unfamiliar cologne.

For a moment, Sherlock was offline, brain, body, everything. He straightened up, and just looked. Then he knelt down again, and concentrated his thoughts, as best as he could in his current drug withdrawal. The scent was not his own. They hadn't fucked or even kissed passionately for months. He'd already felt the slam into his gut when he smelt the faint odour the first time. It was too pervasive to be a casual hug. It was all over his husband. Including.....including areas that precluded anything platonic.

So John. Loyal, trusting, loving John. His John. Had been with another man. Or so it appeared?

He rocked back onto his heels, and clutched hold of the edge of the bath. He let his mind roam as he struggled to contemplate the evidence in front of him. He wondered if this was a blowjob, or penetrative sex. Or both? And then he decided there was no point speculating to that extent. The truth was going to emerge, and whichever answer it was, it was devastating.

Sherlock then suddenly threw up with much more vigour than he had expected and crawled back to his sodden bed, not looking again at the prone figure on the floor. He pulled the covers over his head and stared into the darkness of his makeshift cave, damply warm, stuffy and airless. He felt a sense of disbelief. Not anger, but surprise. Whatever he'd expected John to do once he'd left, going out on the pull for a stranger, especially for a man, was not it. Not at all. 

John had always been a surprise to him, revealing new side of himself, and it was one of the things that entranced Sherlock most about him. He just hadn't reckoned on this being an aspect that would ever be revealed.

................

It was eleven am, near enough, by the time Sherlock shuffled into the drawing room, to see John dressed in his usual comfortable and practical clothes, jeans, shirt and sweater, standing near the window by the dining table, one hand clutching the table far corner, the other clenching and unclenching in turn. Seeing him just standing there, felt like it punched a hole straight through Sherlock's guts, just as though he was as thin as tissue paper and the imaginary fist made a rough ripping sound as he was carelessly torn in two.

Sherlock regarded John's posture with interest. Under extreme stress. Resolute. Terrified. And then inclined his head in acknowledgement that it was coming, then. John was going to tell him.

John turned now, to look at him, and Sherlock was riven by the anguish written in huge invisible letters on his husband's face. And also by the deep hangover he was clearly in the midst of not enjoying. He'd been very drunk when he'd done it, then? Was drinking more, recently, in general. It didn't make him happy, that much was clear.

..................

Sherlock spoke first.

'I could make this easier for you. By telling you what I have deduced, John and letting you fill in the gaps and correct any minor errors, should there be any. But I rather think I won't. I think I should hear it from you, John, don't you? In your own words?'

John nodded miserably. He had no idea how Sherlock came to suspect, but he knew he wasn't bluffing.

'Okay. Yes. That's fair.

'I need to tell you something. Something I'm not proud of and something that I'm not sure you can forgive me for. And to say that, if you can't, then I understand. And that's not some excuse because I'm fed up and tired of fighting for this marriage, because I would fight for it every single day for the rest of my days if we can both find a way to make it work again, but because I understand that what I did might not be something you can forgive.'

Sherlock said nothing, simply nodded, sat back and waited.

John cleared his throat, and hummed a little, and shook himself.

'I - ah. I was. Yeah. Well. I was very angry. At Parthalan being dumped on Molly and Greg, about the whole Mycroft thing, which is a massive betrayal for me, Sherlock. None of this is excuse, this is just explaining background stuff. And I was...very low. Depressed. And drinking. A lot. Too much, way too much.

‘And I went to a pub and drank and drank, for hours. And there were just a few of us left and I got chatting to this man, a PC from the Yar, and he was nice and he was understanding and sweet, and… and yeah, later on, things started to happen.

‘We kissed and then things went further, Sherlock. And they shouldn't have, I know that, but they did. I left with him. We were going to go to his flat. I was just about to give him a blow job. In Temple Gardens. I didn't, though, but I was intending to.

‘I'm so sorry, Sherlock. Really, so, so bloody sorry.'

...........

John wondered if Sherlock actually heard him. He seemed frozen to the spot. So John waited for the outburst, the dismissal from Sherlock's life, to start.

Sherlock looked at him with something akin to pity now.

'And then what?'

'I don't understand?'

‘It's quite simple, John. Did you stop through some sudden revelatory remorse? Did you realise that it was destructive and deadly for our relationship? Or did you just tire of sticking your dick in the lucky dip bran-tub that is London's queer melting-pot?'

John looked down. This was the worst part, in so many ways.

'I… I stopped.'

Then he realised this was misleading, and untruthful. He started again.

'No. I was stopped. I was seized by Mycroft's goons and brought here. He's taken my gun, and put armed guards to stop me leaving until you came back.

‘So no. I can't claim that I stopped through seeing the light. I was planning to go back with him, to his flat. He'd asked me already and I'd agreed. I was going to have sex with him, Sherlock. I was going to fuck him and try to fuck all the hurt out of me. And I know that doesn't work but I just wanted to feel some closeness, wanted to lay down with someone and screw them stupid. That's the truth, all of it.

‘It didn't feel like it was about sex, though, not really. Which I know sounds the shittiest load of crap, but it didn't. Not at any meaningful level. More about expressing anger and about confidence, feeling that I could still be a man and not a kept housewife who does all the childcare while their husband tries to sleep with his brother and do drugs, ignoring the plight of his son.'

.............

Sherlock looked at him. His face was filled with pain.

 

'Well, then. This is hard, isn't it, then, John? How do we look at each other again? How do we live with this? Every day. Knowing, every day, that the other has done the things that they have?

‘You, looking at me and thinking of me trying to seduce Mycroft, you imagining me wishing I was in Eaton Square, maybe, trussed up and beaten by my naked brother? Thinking that's what I really want? Or wondering when the first time will be that Ishbel or Parthalan will find me high, or worse, shooting up? Maybe even being screwed again by a dealer in an alley nearby?

‘And me now, knowing that not only are you capable of infidelity to me, which I would have said was completely unthinkable, John, but that you would do it with strangers. Only stopped when my brother stepped in.

‘Just to prove yourself a man.

‘Just to punish me for my weaknesses.

‘Just to take out your anger with me.

‘Both of us seeing things in the other, that make the other seem like little more than a stranger to the other. Even after all we've been through together.

‘It wasn't meant to be like this, John, was it? Really?'

................

Sherlock stood gazing out of the window now, as if he couldn't bear to hold John's eye contact. John felt like utter shit and wondered if anyone would stop him if he went now, picked up Ishbel, set her in her pushchair and walked out of that huge front door, away into the Square and out of Sherlock's life for good.

He thought, probably no, they wouldn't stop him. Mycroft would probably pay for a cab.... Sherlock, well, who knew with him? He would watch him leave, and then what? Drugs probably, then more cases and his lonely life in 221B, his brother taking his child away. Lasting a few years maybe, until the drug thing wore out his body and his reactions slowed in cases and he was shot or stabbed, or he decided to forestall both and hand on his inheritance to Parthalan earlier than scheduled by offing himself in the Thames.

Strangely, that gloomy outlook made John a bit more determined to stay. 

His chippy side came to the fore and he took the approach that he was damned if he'd be driven out by the Holmes's making high judgement on him, especially given their own track record of sexual morality had more holes than a Swiss cheese… and he certainly wasn't going to walk away to leave his husband to rewind his life to the days when his only friends were dealers after a lot more than money, or minders paid by the hour by his smug brother.

...........

Sherlock was speaking again now, he vaguely noticed.

'I've called Tamara and she should be here shortly. I don't think this is something we two can deal with on our own, at all, if only because physically I am not in the best shape to deal with anything at the moment. And she was coming anyway, she said, because of the discussions that are no doubt going to happen about my time on the island.'

As if by magic, there was a short sharp rap at the door. Mycroft appeared. He looked relieved that the two men in the room were not fighting on the floor. But he could also sense the cold fury and the sadness, muffling every surface.

Sherlock and John invited Mycroft to ask Tamara to join the three of them. Whilst John would have preferred Mycroft to be absent, he was in no position to dictate anything,

..................

 

Mycroft could tell when he and Tamara entered the room that John had told Sherlock. He texted Anthea to destroy the incriminating photographs of John and Ed in Temple Gardens. Mycroft Holmes was undoubtedly a ruthless man and sometimes a cruel one, but he did not believe in further punishment when the reality was visibly punishment enough.

John was surprised that Mycroft then left them shortly afterwards. He thought perhaps work was calling, but in reality, Mycroft genuinely had little stomach left for picking through the mess of these men's marriage and he also thought Tamara would prefer it if they three were alone, given that some of the issues involved himself. Whatever the reason, John was very relieved to see him go.

...........

Tamara sat down in an armchair, facing Sherlock and John.

She looked at Sherlock.

'Are you ok to to do this now? I don't know what stage the withdrawal...'

Sherlock shrugged with the air of resigned stoicism.

'I suspect I'll be worse later and I'd rather get this over with.'

'Very well. John, are you also alright to do this now?'

John couldn't look at her, but he bit his lip, and nodded.

Tamara spoke.

'There's a bit of a complicated web here, but let's try and understand it in summary.  
Sherlock, is it fair to say that you have found being a parent to Parthalan and Ishbel a struggle at times?'

'No, Not at times. All the time.'

John looked up. He knew that it was sometimes difficult, but he hadn't expected that answer. Tamara's little finger crooked at him, just to make sure he didn't interject and allowed Sherlock to continue.

'Why is that?'

'Because it messes with my head. I swing from wanting them out of my hair because of science and experiments and cases and taking too damn much of John's time and actually, too damn much of John's love; to feeling like I love them more than anything and want them to be free to run wild like I was able to when I was small, but then I swing to wanting to shut them away and hide them and never let them out because they might not be safe, because there are people, people who… John worries about the risk of sports injuries, that Parthalan might break a bone falling off a horse, but I know about risks that are far worse than that… a hundred times more… and I'm not worried about the horse riding, it's the other things that gnaw away at me, always, every day and every night, worrying about him.

‘Will Mary's killers, if she was killed, come after Rachel and will our our two get caught up? Will Mycroft's love for Bee and his position as Holmes heir make Bee a target? Will all of Parthalan's teachers be like my Eton ones, or might any Jonathan Langs slip through the checks?

‘How can I do my work, have my life with John and still protect the children every day of their lives, from the nightmare that I lived?'

He broke off. Staring at his hands.

'And I don't worry so much about Ishbel because she's so easy and so cheerful and John's so good with her, and that's all just perfect and then I look at Parthalan and he's solemn and so silent with everyone else. And I know that the only thing that makes him happy, really happy, is to be with me all the time - but I can't give him that. I can't give him what he needs to be happy, because it will destroy me in the process - and I can't let myself be destroyed again. I vowed I would never let that happen.'

.............

'And I feel as if I lost John to the children and one was hard and two was almost impossible and then, in Spain, I felt as though he was going to just go ahead with number three, because he loved Mary and he owed Mary and so he would have Rachel and he owed Mary NOTHING. NOTHING. She was a paid assassin and she killed little kids and he owed her NOTHING.

‘And I ran to Mycroft, and he was the only one who could help, but he always wants something in return, and this time I figured it would need to be the biggest thing I could offer him, what I thought he wanted; I didn't want to betray John but I felt betrayed by him. And I needed my brother and I didn't care any more what form that took. I've sold myself before, many times, remember.

‘And Mycroft rejected me and John did the same and then, I just ran, to the drugs, to the island, away from it. Away from all of it. Alone again.

‘That's it. That's the story. As basic and unseemly and pathetic as that.'

........

Tamara asked the question to which they already had the answer but wanted to hear it from Sherlock himself.

'Sherlock, the skull and the letters, the ones on the island. Why did you take them there?'

 

'They...'

John interrupted.

'Sorry. Actually we should get Mycroft back in for this part'.

He went and fetched him and soon the four of them were sitting in the drawing room. Sherlock continued as though the interruption had never happened.

'You can probably guess, anyway, I imagine you've all read the letters now. Jonathan's mother wrote them, kept writing them. At first it was bearable and I ignored them, but gradually they got worse and then they got under my skin. By the end, they made me feel sorry for her and sorry for Jonathan.'

'Sorry for Lang, after what he did to you? You're kidding me? You were just a little boy?'

'I know that, John. Eleven. I know. Yes, I felt sorry for him. Because there must have been something that I was doing that made him do it, like she said, that triggered it off. Otherwise why suddenly do it, do that, with me?

‘He hadn't been in trouble before for it and he wasn't afterwards? So it must have been something about me? That's what she said. And maybe she had a point?'

Mycroft leant forward in his chair.

'Sherlock. Listen to me. Listen hard.

‘I've never told you this, because I didn't think you needed to know and it was hard enough coping with the knowledge myself. 

You were not his only victim, Sherlock.

‘It was nothing to do with anything you did, what happened to you. Nothing. At. All. Do you understand. Tell me you understand that.'

Sherlock frowned and shook his head, almost as if there was water in his ears and he was trying to clear it. His face was pale. This was clearly news to him.

'No.....I don't....I thought.....'

Mycroft knew that his revelation and its implications were likely to be upsetting for Sherlock. But there was no choice, if he was not to blame himself for his own abuse, which was potentially even more harmful. The devastation coming was, now he would blame himself for the abuse of another victim, one that came after him. And Mycroft himself would be reminded of his own regret at not being powerful enough, early enough, to stop it and to save the other boy.

..............

'After the police had to release him, due to lack of evidence' (by which Mycroft meant, but did not say, "because Sherlock would not testify"), 'Lang was free for almost another three years until I was able to… deal… with him. During that time, there was another victim, Sherlock. Like you, they were too traumatised to testify. Like you, Jonathan Lang tried to put the blame onto the boy. And just as with you, Sherlock, he was wrong and wicked to do that, just as he was wrong and evil to rape you. It was post-case grooming, grooming you both, to blame yourselves for what he had done. It was an integral part of the abuse.

‘After his death, but only then, I discovered there were also several victims that came before you, too.

‘This is not about something wrong or individual to you, Sherlock. This is nothing to do with anything you did, or didn't do. Even if you had been the only victim that would have been irrelevant. And you didn't cast out an "aura" or send out signals or do anything wrong. You were a child. He was an adult. That means he was the only wrong one. The only things you were, were lonely and isolated and eager to please an adult who was showing you attention and that was just what a serial sex offender like Lang was looking for.'

..............

Sherlock sat there looking stunned. At first he looked almost relieved and happy. He hadn't led Jonathan on. He hadn't done anything wrong. The weight lifted. The light on his face lasted for about a minute. Everyone sat there, letting out a long breath.

It couldn't last. Only his drug after effects still dulling his mind made the blissful happiness last as long as a minute. Then, his face darkened again and as the implications of Mycroft's statements sank in, he lost that relieved look. And anguish filled his countenance once more.

'But then… that means if I'd testified against Lang he would have been in prison. He wouldn't have been able to abuse the other boy, the last one, the one after me?'

Mycroft had known this was coming. Sherlock was too intelligent to miss it. He did not physically touch his brother; matters were still too difficult for that, but he stood close now, close enough that he could speak softly and still be heard, close enough that his brother could feel his breathing on the back of his neck as he spoke.

'We don't know that, Sherlock. We don't know what would have happened in court. He might have got off. He might have committed the abuse before he was arrested, or got bail and done it then, pending the trial. You can't live like that, with "what if's".

‘You were extremely unwell and to have forced you to testify might well have been catastrophic. It was never an option, once it was clear how things were with you. We nearly lost you so many times and you weren't strong enough to take any more.'

.................

Sherlock seemed to drift away then, his eyes looking vacant and heavy lidded. Not drugs, rather it was clear he was remembering his eleven year old self; the period immediately after being taken to hospital from Holmes Manor and the weeks and months that followed. He looked lost, vacant, absent from the room. At last, after a few minutes, he seemed to return to them and said nothing, but simply slowly nodded, though John wasn't at all sure he agreed.

Sherlock only asked one more question, but it was the one Mycroft was dreading and hoped he wouldn't ask.

'What happened to him, I assume it was a him. The victim after me. The other little boy. How did he cope? Afterwards, I mean.'

...............

Mycroft never lied to Sherlock. Sherlock lied to Mycroft, always had done, to get more sweets, to be allowed to do things he wasn't supposed to, to cover up his catastrophic deeds, but Mycroft never lied to Sherlock.

He did so now. He had no option.

He looked Sherlock straight in the eye, and said:

'It was hard for him, of course. Really tough. But he came through it, eventually, with a lot of help. And he's doing fine, Sherlock. Really well. Like you are. Like you will.'

That seemed to satisfy Sherlock. And Mycroft was glad of all the years of blunt truth-speaking, earning him the acceptance of this one great big lie, a joker card, spent when it really mattered.

Because he wasn't fine, the other boy, the boy who was abused after Sherlock. Obviously he wasn't. He didn't get through it, the downward spiral ending up in membership of a gang, gun crime, all that mindless stuff. And the drugs, too, of course. He was dead and gone now, shot in a turf war between rival gangs, years ago, now.

And Sherlock must never know.

..............

This was the reason Mycroft sought power, as much of it and as quickly as possible. It had been slower to come at first, three years it took to get enough of it to eliminate Lang via contacts he made at University, several years too long for Rory Fisher; after that, Mycroft was resolved that he would never again be unable to protect the people who needed protection because of a lack of influence, resources or immunity from legal consequence for his actions.

If all this had happened today, Lang would have been dead within hours of his deeds being discovered. Life was all about timing and coincidence. If Jonathan hadn't coincided with Sherlock's need for tutoring. If Mycroft had been further on in his career. Or still at school, living at home, able to see and prevent the grooming. If… if… if...

Sherlock asked about the earlier victims, too and was relieved to discover that they too, were doing well. In those cases, there was at least some truth to the statement...

............

Mycroft asked Sherlock what he wanted done about Lang's mother.

'I can have her prosecuted for harassment, get a court order preventing her from contacting you?'

Sherlock shook his head.

'There's no need. I think she's writing these, because she knows she doesn't have much time left. I suspect something terminal. She wants to go to her grave feeling good about her family. Blaming me is the only way to redeem Jonathan.'

Mycroft nodded.

'Then there's only one more outstanding question. The skull, Sherlock. What should happen to it?'

Sherlock looked up at the ceiling rose, intricate in its carving, and blinked repeatedly.

'Send it to her. Let her re-bury it with the rest of Lang's body.'

'Do you not need it anymore? Do you not find it helpful?' Mycroft was worried that Sherlock was going to take a rash decision. One which would not be possible to reverse. Grave robbing was not the easiest activity to undertake or justify especially as Lang had never been convicted.

'Lang is always with me, the skull is no longer relevant. I need to concentrate on now, on what the future holds for the adult me, not the child I once was.'

..............

By which, Sherlock means us, and our family, John thought. He hoped the casting off of the skull was a positive sign. Though John hadn't believed Mycroft's story about the last victim and he didn't think Tamara had; there was something about the softness in Mycroft's eyes when he said it that was "off".

Sherlock had swallowed it though, because he wanted to believe it.

Rather like Sebastian's Catholicism in "Brideshead Revisited", Sherlock could genuinely choose to deeply believe something, just because it was a "nice idea". As a self protection mechanism, it was very effective. And just like John's shameful episode after the discovery of Sherlock's interactions with "Abdullah", this secret was one which would never be revealed, for all the right reasons.

'It shall be done, brother mine', announced Mycroft and took the skull out of the room.

Sherlock looked drained now. John, noticing his pallor, helped him up, too thin, much too thin, out back to the bedroom and into bed, smoothing the quilted coverlet over him as he lay there, shivering despite the warm room. He was still refusing all food and would only accept sweet tea.

It looked like they would be here for some time and there would be plenty of time to discuss their own fractured relationship. For now, John went back downstairs. Just in time to be cannoned into by the children returning from the aquarium...

.............

Later, some hours after this, Sherlock came slowly downstairs again and asked Tamara and John to come into the drawing room. He wanted to continue the discussion, then. The counselling, if you could call it that.

Sherlock quietly asked John to repeat to Tamara what John had already told him about Ed, Temple Gardens and only being stopped by Mycroft's minders.

Tamara knew that John, as he spoke slowly, had already determined what he, at least, thought needed to happen. John couldn't meet her eye until he finished talking, but when he did, she thought he looked resolute and steely.

John tried to express himself clearly, which he didn't always feel was a string point.

'So both of us have been on the verge of infidelity. Both of us only stopped by the intervention of other parties. Sherlock with Mycroft and myself with Ed. And then there's the drugs with Sherlock and the wish to take on Rachel with me.

‘If nothing else is clear, it's clear that all this as it's currently set up, is not working. Our marriage, our relationship, some of the relationships with our children.

‘I've come to some conclusions.

‘I think I need to move with the children, our two children, back to London, full time, permanently, until the children are much more grown up. Being in Sussex helped when they were babies, but I have come to realise, it's not helping now.

‘I need to stop being so selfish about Rachel. She's clearly happy, bizarre though that is, living here with Mycroft and will be going to boarding school in a few months time anyway. I should stop demanding some kind of parental right to a child that, in reality, I'm neither related to, nor really know at all.

‘She may not want a direct traditional replacement for her mother. Maybe Mycroft is just the sort of parent she needs, who am I to say? Rachel isn't Mary and Mary wasn’t the woman I thought I married. I don't need to look at Mycroft's files to tell me that. Just my own conscience, I guess.

‘Yeah. And. Mmmm. I need to stop drinking. Altogether, for good. I think so. I thought I could control it, like I always have, it's been a matter of pride for me, but the other night told me that at times, I clearly can't and when I can't, shit happens.

‘And I need to apologise for that, which sounds as inadequate as it is. Sherlock, I am just so sorry for hurting you so badly, the way my actions the other night have hurt you.'

He turned to Sherlock, whose lips tightened in a gesture of confirmation.

Tamara nodded approvingly, ticking off items on a list she seemed to have in her moleskin notebook.

...............

Sherlock had said nothing out loud so far. He looked slightly less gaunt this morning, but very, very tired. Tamara turned to him.

'Sherlock? Can you say something now?'

Sherlock nodded slowly and leaned forward.

'I feel as if a huge weight has lifted, knowing that there will only be Parthalan and Ishbel. With Rachel it wasn't just the idea of another child, it was whose child it was, that I found impossible to contemplate.

‘I've tried to work through the Moriarty events and, as far as that is ever possible, put them behind me. And I've tried, I'm still trying, to reconcile John's feelings for Mary. I'm getting there a bit more, but it's still early days, even years on; I couldn't face that every day over the breakfast table. I have no problem with being an uncle to Rachel, I'm just not emotionally equipped to be a father to her, which I think Mycroft is; he's longed for this for years, and he, unlike us, doesn't have the chance of his own child.

‘I need to apologise to you, John. More than you do to me. It's a special kind of betrayal that I inflicted on you, to try to seduce my own brother, unfair to him too and I then exacerbated it with the drugs. I can't excuse my actions, except to say that I am glad that Mycroft stopped me and also that, given neither of us desires the other any longer, there isn't any risk of a recurrence.

‘I am prepared to go to rehab, if that's needed. I am glad to have you back in London, John, I've missed you so much. And I will try my best with the children. I love you so much, John and I'm only too aware that I very nearly lost you altogether this time. I would do anything for that not to happen.’

...........

Tamara smiled at them.

'Time to get Mycroft I think, since you have something to say to him.’

Mycroft walked into his drawing room and stopped, surprised to see Sherlock and John looking so softly at each other and at Tamara's smile, slightly smug.

He looked at John and Sherlock in turn.

'Care to share?'

John cleared his throat. He glanced at Sherlock, who as usual seemed to be able to read his mind. Anyway, it wasn't a problem: he knew Sherlock would be glad of the words he was about to say.

'I… umm… that is to say, we… We wanted to say, congratulations on your new daughter, Mycroft. We think you'll be a great father to her and that she will make you very proud.'

Mycroft, who had always known he could prevail in a court battle with John over Rachel, nonetheless found John's words unbearably moving.

It was the first time anyone had ever referred to him as a father and to Rachel as, potentially, his daughter. (A daughter who admittedly, was currently guiltily trying to pick up about twenty thousand tiny beads from the kitchen floor, having tried to make a necklace when the string went 'ping'......)

He sat down heavily. All the rushing around to Spain, the administration, whilst still doing his normal work running the country and keeping world peace, had kept him from stopping and thinking and from believing that this might actually happen. That Rachel might be actually his. Not his by blood, automatically, but by choice, both of their choices, freely given.

.............

Sherlock came over. He didn't say anything. Relations between the two brothers were inevitably strained and delicate; the gulf wasn't something that could quickly or easily be healed. They would have to find a new equilibrium, one which gave them both the dignity and self-respect they felt they had both thrown away on the parched rocky hillside in Spain.

For now, Sherlock put his hand on Mycroft's shoulder and squeezed just a little. And then he smiled, a small grateful smile at John and left the room. John could hear him, slowly climbing the stairs and breathing hard. He was obviously feeling less than good again, so John quickly rose, made his excuses and went to join his husband.

There was time for an hour or so rest before they had to think about lunch.

..............

Sherlock was already asleep by the time John had visited the bathroom and entered the bedroom. His face was pale and exhausted, his dark hair fuzzy and uncontrolled. His long eyelashes were dark and still, making him look terribly young and vulnerable. Yet John could see just a few grey hairs in the dark locks. It made him realise that they really needed to stop pissing around like young bucks and sort their lives out. If only he could tame his Phoenix enough for that to happen?!

John slipped off his sweater and changed his shirt for a T shirt, but kept his trousers on, just removing his belt. Then he lay on the bed next to Sherlock, but over the covers, not under and lay there watching him for a while. Slowly, gradually, he fell into a deep sleep.

When he woke blearily, an hour later, he was alone and Sherlock was heard to be showering, but John found that the blankets had been carefully placed over him, neatly tucked in. He felt a bit like a toasted sandwich, all sealed in at the edges. It made him feel too hot, but also cared for.

...........

Lunch that day was an interesting affair. Mycroft sat at the head of the table, with Rachel alongside him. She was showing him something on her iPad and Mycroft was turning his head, trying to make sense of the images, which Rachel said were a "meme" and Mycroft nodded as though he knew all about those…

Tamara sat at Mycroft's other side, enjoying the food and Mycroft's obvious happiness and the much improved atmosphere permeating the house.

Parthalan and Ishbel sat next to Sherlock and John respectively, Parthalan wriggling on his seat and Ishbel in a high chair. Parthalan, so long denied his Papa's company, was on his very best behaviour, aside from the wriggling and so was resisting the urge to eat only the cheesy potato topping of his fish pie and was making something of an effort with the fish. The prawns, however, were still firmly classified as 'unacceptable in all circumstances and contexts' and were now hanging over the edge of his plate, their decapitated bodies facing away from Bee.

Ishbel by contrast simply spent the meal doing what Ishbel did best: smearing food everywhere, laughing and poking her daddy in the eye or ear every time he bent down for the umpteenth time to pick up the utensils she'd thrown onto the floor. Some of the food even went into her mouth.

Once his plate and its offensive prawn garnish had been removed, Parthalan shuffled off his chair, even though he knew he wasn't supposed to get down until he was told he could leave the table and tapped softly on Sherlock's arm. Sherlock bent down and Parthalan whispered something into his ear. All John could hear was a sort of wishy-hissy sort of sound, but Sherlock seemed to understand it perfectly.

'Excuse us for a few minutes', Sherlock said, and left the room with his son, who led him upstairs with a tiny hand in a huge one. John watched them go and bit his lip at the picture they made together. Two children, really.

Upstairs, Parthalan dragged Sherlock into his room and made him sit on the sofa by the window. It was metal framed, ornate twisting shapes forming the arms and legs. Sherlock was bemused but decided to humour Bee. He sat obediently. Bee had told him he had something for him, a surprise. Sherlock was expecting a new beetle or something similar. He closed his eyes as requested, and waited.

...............

All of a sudden, Sherlock felt something sliding round his left wrist. He looked down. A small face was peering at him from the other side of the sofa arm. His wrist was handcuffed to the sofa.

'Parthalan! Undo this now!! What are you doing??'

Parthalan looked a bit awkward then. He hadn't thought this far ahead, clearly.

I… do they not just come off? I didn't see a key when I got them at Uncle and Aunty's house? I wanted to make you stay, so I thought they would be good, ‘cause they are what Uncle Greg uses. And… I didn't want you to get angry because of this, so I thought they would be good'… and Parthalan pointed to a pile of screwed up sheets on one of the beds. With his keen sense of smell, Sherlock knew what those sheets meant.

He signalled with his one remaining free hand for Parthalan to climb on his knee. The spider monkey leapt on, but looked nervous.

Sherlock looked him in the eye.

'Bee, let me tell you something.

‘I would never, ever, ever be angry with you for that, not ever. It's something that happens sometimes and then, one day, it will just stop. And it's something that happened to me too and it took a very long time to stop with me, because the things that made me start were really very very bad and they couldn't really go away from my mind for a very long time.

‘But for you, they can. For you, we can make it better. And I'm not leaving you, Bee. Never.

‘So I don't think I really need these on, do I?'

Parthalan bit his lip and then shook his head slowly.

'Noooo… I guess not...'

'Good. Would you like to ask Dad to call Greg and tell him that someone's nicked his handcuffs and that this time, it wasn't actually me, but that there might be a genetic tendency to be aware of, and could he bring a key?'

Bee slid off his knee and shuffled off slowly to go and fetch John. He knew John might actually be less amused than Papa; but was pleasantly surprised when John instead shouted with laughter when Bee nervously told him that Papa was handcuffed to the sofa and there was no key. He was still laughing as he rang Molly (who found it equally funny) and she procured the necessary to enable an escape. A driver was despatched dispatched to fetch it.

All this was a very Bad Thing, of course, teaching Bee only one lesson: practical jokes went down very well indeed in his parents household...

............

That evening, once the children were in bed, they had dinner with Mycroft and Tamara, the latter having appeared again despite there being no clear reason for it… except to see Mycroft, of course. Greg and Molly were there too, still tickled by the handcuffs incident and pointing out the fact that Parthalan was clearly beginning to take after his Papa in more ways than just his looks.

Sherlock had clearly got wind of the possible relationship developing between Tamara and Mycroft and it could really have been quite awkward, given recent events between the Holmes brothers. However Tamara was noticeably kind and friendly to Sherlock and both he and Mycroft were grateful for her intermediary conversation, which allowed them to speak to each other without their conversations straying down painful or dangerous dead ends and meant they didn't need to restrict conversation to asking for the salt.

Sherlock still ate little and was pale, but he looked better than he had been. Now that his conviction that he had enticed Jonathan Lang's attentions had finally been crushed for good, he seemed to gain confidence in talking to people, even those he had known for years. Before, his words were formal, mannered.

Now he seemed to allow himself to actually chat, something John had never really seen.

All these years, John thought, using careful measured phrases and complex words, to avoid engaging directly with people he doesn't know well. And all this time, it seems, he's doing it to make sure everything is oblique, nothing of what he says could be interpreted as a come-on, a lead-on, a tease...

Not for the first time, John wondered at his still learning new things about his own husband.

He knew Mycroft had lied about that last boy. Just… something about his face as he'd spoken. And knew why he had lied. Sherlock hadn't seen it though he normally would, of course. Sherlock didn't see it because, as with Mary, he didn't want to see it. He wanted Mycroft's words to be true, so they were. And that was fine, John thought. That was kind and Sherlock needed kind.

..............

Sherlock's hand was on the table, flat, with his palm down. John covered the huge hand with his own small paw. He felt warmth seeping up into him. Sherlock turned and looked at him, the shadowed, tired eyes inscrutable. Then turned to Mycroft.

'You will excuse us for dessert, won't you? It has been a long and difficult day. John and I are turning in.'

John hadn't expected this but nodded at the murmurs of assent from the assembled party. They hugged Molly and Greg and exchanged a social kiss with Tamara. And then they went upstairs to their rooms.

Once in the bedroom Sherlock had been using, the sheets renewed while they had been eating, Sherlock sat down heavily on the bed, his head buried in his hands.

John emerged from the bathroom, showered and with a towel slung around his waist.

He approached the bed and gently unfurled the scrunched up fingers, then lifted Sherlock's chin. He hadn't been crying but his face looked like someone who might.

'Hey, what gives?'

Sherlock shrugged.

'I feel worried about Parthalan's future. I don't know what to do for the best. And I feel guilty for being relieved that I wasn't Lang's only victim. I shouldn't feel that, but I do, knowing that he was just plain bad and we were all just prey, it feels better than thinking it was me who drew him in.'

John drew him into a gentle hug, mindful of his still delicate frame after the drug abuse.

'You are right to feel relieved, you shouldn't have had to bear the burden of thinking what you thought for so long. Being relieved makes no difference to the other victims, Sherlock, none at all, just as guilt doesn't. The best tribute you can pay to them is to come out of the experience and thrive and survive, which is what you are doing.'

.................

'I've been thinking about Parthalan too. Not for now, he will need to go to a London day school for a couple of years if I'm coming back to London, but after that, when he's seven. If you and he would like it, I'll support the boarding school idea. It will give you more breathing space and him more immersive social interaction. It's too easy with a day school for him to shrink away in a corner and then scuttle off as soon as school is over. At boarding school he'll be involved in activities right up until bedtime.

And if we pick the right one, he could do riding there too, maybe have a pony of his own? Riding a pony he knows would be safer, I think, than always riding different ones.'

Sherlock looked at his husband, marvelling at him. John seemed to be doing all the compromising here. He would have to think of some way to repay him, something he could compromise on. That wouldn't come easily or naturally to him, he knew.

John continued.

'It would be up to him of course. And we'd have to organise dance lessons because horsey-sporty schools don't tend to be dance and arts schools and vice versa. Mycroft was talking about a prep school in Dorset he was looking at for Rachel, she rode in Spain and this school lets kids take their ponies and keep them there; they have riding in the evening after their lessons.'

'John?'

Sherlock interrupted the speech.

'Yeah?'

'Stop talking now, and come here.'

Sherlock patted the bed and John lay down, still clad only in a small towel. Sherlock propped himself up on one elbow and began tracing soft trails over John's sandy-grey haired chest and circling each neat small nipple in turn.

John started shivering, even though the room was warm and cosy. Suddenly, he rose from the bed and went and locked the door. He came back to the bed, brandishing a key. 'A parents best friend', he smiled and dropped it onto the bedside table.

'Now, where were you?'

.............

They made love, that night, for the first time since Sherlock's first disappearance to Brownsea, the first time in months. There seemed to be an unspoken agreement that neither would mention the other's recent sexual straying, though of course that was never far from either of their minds. Both were grateful that matters had not got so far that discussions about protection would need to be had all over again.

John took the lead, telling Sherlock in clear and urgent tones exactly what he was going to do to him and what he would like Sherlock to do. In this way, John knew, Sherlock had the chance both to retreat if he felt something was too much right now, but also was able to hand over control to someone who currently felt more in control, generally, than he did himself.

Thus it was that John had Sherlock on his front, John's cock inside him, hardly moving, lying almost flat against him. Whilst certainly not the best position for friction, the sheer closeness of the contact along their whole body lengths felt erotic in itself, and the weight of his lover on top of him made Sherlock feel both incredibly alive and totally safe in his arms. Like a ship, safe in harbour.

When John subsequently growled and roughly pulled up Sherlock's hips and began thrusting into him relentlessly, gaining breathless gasping speed all the time, Sherlock, while being rammed into the pillows at the head of the bed, found he climbed to orgasm blissfully quickly and came, after months of abstinence, with a thick shooting flood, come ending up all over the pillows, sheets and all over himself. He'd been quiet, for him, subduing his normal shouts or cries of 'John.' into a single, loud, and slightly surprised 'Oh!'

John came soon afterwards, pulling Sherlock's still-sensitive body back towards him one last time and releasing himself with a guttural grunt. Sherlock had been tight and fantastic and John spilled himself into him with a feeling of pure bloody relief at being "home". Not at Baker Street, but with Sherlock, in Sherlock's body, where he belonged.

After climaxing, he stayed embedded for longer than normal, wanting to prolong the feeling of being joined for as long as they physically could. Eventually, sensing his weight was starting to be uncomfortable for Sherlock, he withdrew, marvelling at the flow of come and lube that accompanied his now relaxed prick as it reluctantly left Sherlock's arse. He went and got a cloth, cleaning them both, and then, naked, they lay down together, embracing.

'How close I was to losing him, to stupid screwing around', John thought and a chill went down his spine. He had not drunk at dinner. He did not intend to drink more than the odd glass of wine with a meal again. The stakes were too high.

..................

The next morning they left for Baker Street. Sherlock had negotiated not going to rehab, because of the progress he'd made with withdrawal and for once, John agreed with him. Mainly because John wasn't at all sure how Parthalan would deal with his Papa going away again, especially to somewhere he wouldn't see him very much.

Mycroft allowed Parthalan to go with them. He was concerned for Parthalan, but more focused on his own twin projects, Tamara and Rachel. His ladies required careful handling in very different ways, if he was to make sure of happy outcomes in both new relationships in his life. He watched as John folded up the pushchair and put Ishbel into the car and then as Sherlock walked to the car with Parthalan piggyback on his shoulders.

It would never be quite like that for him, Mycroft knew, with Rachel, because she was older, more fully formed and not a Holmes by blood.

But he was able, now, to watch Parthalan leave without the desire to keep him here overwhelming his respect for Sherlock and John's rights and role as his parents. It didn't lessen his love for the boy. Bee was his life and he would die for him.

\--------end of Chapter 10------------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music for this chapter
> 
> Evanescence - Bring Me to Life


	11. Eaton Square and Baker Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some smut. Mary's funeral. And security concerns mount about the threat Blackwood the drugs baron might pose.

It was late evening again in Eaton Square. The super rich occupants of the imposing white stucco townhouses were relaxing, after dinners that ranged from egg-white omelettes for the figure-conscious oligarch's wives keen not to be replaced too quickly with a younger model, to grouse and game chips for the old monied lot still hanging onto their increasingly tenuous foothold in the Square.

Mycroft Holmes would certainly count as the old money side of the equation; oligarchs being more his focus of attention at work than anything he would aspire to. And egg-white omelettes were not his scene, but tonight, neither was grouse. It might have been, but for the fact that his dinner this evening had been shared, for the second night running, with Tamara. She preferred lighter fare and they had dined on Rose veal and steamed vegetables. And now they were in the low lit drawing room and his hands were cupping her still shapely breasts as he kissed her with a mouth tasting of Chablis and need, and he was trying to work out what sort of bedroom animal she would be...

...And Tamara pulled away slightly from him and smiled, put a finger to his lips and chided him gently.

'You, mister, are over thinking. Just relax. I have my own ideas about how you like to go and, if I'm right, this should be good. Just let it happen.'

And with that, she did what very few people ever did to Mycroft Holmes; she took him completely by surprise when, without warning, she sank down to the floor, on her knees, placing her hands in her lap.

.................

Mycroft was taken aback. She knew? And not only knew, but was prepared to slot into a complementary role? He'd never considered it as a possibility, even. Dear God above.

She kept her eyes down and spoke softly.

'You're probably surprised by this. I was too, some years ago when I realised my preferences. For me it's part theatre, part erotic. And my daytime life offers me only opportunity to indulge the tough side of me, the one that has to make quick decisions, about actions to be taken or words to be spoken. Confrontation, often. Whilst I'm very good at that, I sometimes need the other side too; one where someone else is responsible, takes the decisions, looks after me. Much like Sherlock is with John, I imagine, though we've only touched on discussing that aspect of their relationship.

‘I'm not interested in physical punishment or pain play, but I'm happy if you seek that elsewhere while in a relationship with me. The elements I enjoy are restraint and control and sensory deprivation. Emotional fidelity is however also important to me, so aside from the corporal punishment element I would expect sexual exclusivity.

‘This is always a difficult conversation to have right at the start but it's important to get it established with an area like this, I think?’

Mycroft looked thrilled.

‘I couldn't agree more. Dearest Tamara, you really are quite a remarkable lady!’ 

He removed his suit jacket and tie, and placed them over his arm.

'Let us adjourn to my suite. Shall we?'

............

And he led her up the separate private staircase at the side of the hallway, behind a door in the panelling, up to his set of rooms. A set of rooms which included a large bedroom with ensuite, dressing room, and also a room for activities such as those Tamara had referred to. This room was soundproofed...

Mycroft was very late down to breakfast the next morning and he sent a tray up for Tamara, taking his own tray and going back up himself. It was a Saturday. He thought he might reappear sometime about Sunday lunchtime… this lady was a revelation.

..........

Sherlock and John had arrived at Baker Street with the children. Bee was more of a limpet than a child at present and was clinging onto Sherlock’s arm or leg constantly. Sherlock, still going through the less pleasant after-effects of a shed load of heroin in the system, was for once slow-moving and forced to settle down and rest, and this was ideal for a Parthalan-marmoset set on keeping his Papa for himself for the day.

John set about sorting out Ishbel, changing her in the nursery off their bedroom and settling her down with a rusk and some new toys. He looked about the room at the scene. Sherlock was slumped in his chair, not quite asleep but eyes closed, with Parthalan snuggled up on his lap sucking his thumb, also close to dropping off. Ishbel was playing, speaking to herself in some approximation of conversation with her toy figures as they climbed into their fire engine and trundled around a figure-of-eight track on the floor.

'Perfect', he thought to himself. And went and made the tea, though he suspected he'd be the only one awake enough to drink any. He felt warm inside. All his family together, safe, warm and sleepy. John's idea of heaven.

.................

Heaven did not last long. By four o’ clock, Mycroft had rung to say that investigations into the importation of the stinger device which caused Mary's fatal crash, had revealed a trail which led back to a man named Samuel Blackwood (though this was possibly not his real name). He was involved in a number of areas including gun running, drugs smuggling and also illicit mercenary operations. Anything illegal and very lucrative, essentially, anything that other criminals thought was too hot to handle.

It wasn't yet clear why Mary was a target for him. John and Sherlock both heard this, Sherlock having put Mycroft onto speakerphone

Speaking of Mary, it was her funeral tomorrow and Mycroft wanted to know if John was intending to say a few words? John nodded and Sherlock looked away. Of course John should. He was probably the closest thing to a next-of-kin Mary had. And Sherlock? Well, he knew he just needed to get through the funeral and then they could put it behind them, put Mary behind them.

Mycroft said that Rachel had also written some words to read at the short service. 'She's a plucky girl, that one', he commented with no little pride in his voice.

'How is she doing, Mycroft?', asked John.

'She's… well. She's really rather an asset, I feel', Mycroft said in his dry way. 'Eaton Square is certainly a livelier place for her presence. There is an unidentifiable but lurid craft project on the Georgian dining table and magnets on the walk in chiller fridge. She offered me a "cheese string", whatever that might be, as a 'snack in case I had the munchies' and has presented me with a something called a friendship bracelet made entirely of plastic in shades of lime green and cyan. She requests that I wear it when I attend Cabinet meetings, but states that "if they all want one they will have to wait as she's only got one pair of hands and they will have to pay but that as the main breadwinner in the household I don't have to pay for mine..."

‘Still, despite the fact that I am clearly the least suitable person in England to be found looking after a seven year old girl and she is taking Kirsty on her clothes hunting trips, saying she doesn't want to be mistaken for a sofa in a country house hotel, which I take to be a dig at my weekend tweeds, she doesn't appear to be lonely. Although we are going to Battersea at the weekend to find her a kitten. She's graciously allowing me to escort her for that.'

John grinned. Mycroft had never much liked animals as pets and John couldn't imagine him with a cat. Rachel had clearly got him right under her neat well-scrubbed thumb.

Sherlock piped in 'Mind you don't slip on any coughed-up fur balls, Brother dear.'

Mycroft was unflustered and ignored the jibe. He was clearly, and unapologetically, having the time of his life.

'This is why some of us choose to live a civilised life with a proper complement of domestic staff, Brother mine, rather than the fetid dust bowl of Jerry built Georgian slummagery you choose to call a home.'

With that snip, polite goodbyes were exchanged. John was happy. Snarking Sherlock and Mycroft was how he wanted his world to be. And a happy Mycroft independent of Sherlock meant a great deal more comfort to John. He'd seen too much in his mind's eye of a very different bond between the brothers and he wanted no more of it.

..................

Once off the phone, John turned to Sherlock.

'Do you think there's something else besides Rachel… Tamara?'

Sherlock's almond eyes flashed with amusement.

'Mmm. Had sex with Tamara, I estimate, approximately five point two times, the point two being when Mrs G caught them in flagrante delicto behind the library curtains on Tuesday lunchtime and Mycroft had to make a swift and tactical withdrawal. I imagine since then he's making good use of the secret room.'

'Ugh', said John, shuddering. 'How do you even know all this?'

'I don't know, I deduce, John, you know my methods. It might be six point two times. It's difficult to be exact.'

Sherlock looked smug. John felt a little queasy. Sherlock carried blithely on.

'I was ahead of Mycroft though. He didn't guess she enjoyed subbing. But then I had the advantage; one sub always recognises another, John, it's like a club. Doms are too busy jockeying for position to notice much, but subs are more of a brother/sisterhood. One of the advantages, I reckon to an otherwise misunderstood and denigrated role and one reason why I'm a better detective than Mycroft would ever be. His cock gets in the way.'

John made a face like bad drains.

'Mmm… maybe so. But I don't want to think about Mycroft's cock and I'm hoping that, now at least, neither do you.'

Sherlock nodded and looked sidelong at his husband. Then, and it was a surprise to them both, they both started to laugh. And felt free of something, some chain that had needed breaking for a long time, and now was snapped.

..............

That night, after all the talk of doms and subs, Sherlock spent an hour and a half silent and still, settled on his knees at John's feet in the bedroom, before, on command, removing John's trousers and pants and sucking him off spectacularly, the whole process achieved using only his unbelievable mouth. His oral hangup seemed put aside, his enthusiasm uncontained. He would have brought John to orgasm, had he not been gently stopped, only just in time. John had other plans.

John then played with a naked, bound and trussed Sherlock for another forty-two minutes, using the riding crop and the new innovation in their kit, sounding rods, before bending him over the bed and screwing both him, and the bed frame, noisily into the fabric of the wall. Thankfully Mrs Hudson's "broom handle of doom" knocking on the ceiling below, came only as they both climaxed into a heap of exhaustion and sweat, lube and semen on the sheets. Their laundry bill (when their marriage was good) was astronomical, more than John used to spend on food in a month at the Army bedsit, but he had to agree it was worth every penny. Even the surcharges for the deep cleans needed to tackle the berry compote and chocolate sauce...

They knew it was going to be something of a scene, tonight, so John was ready prepared with a flask of hot sugary tea and sweet biscuits and warm damp flannels by the bed, to coax and comfort Sherlock as he came crashing back down from the blissful whiteness of subspace, then cried and snuffled a little into John's sweaty armpit.

...............

Afterwards, once Sherlock was consoled, happy and back with John properly, they lay together in companionable silence, and Sherlock curled up with his head still tucked into the fur in John's armpit, that clearly being the favoured smelly location for maximum solace and familiarity.

John stroked his lover's dark hair, a few greys appearing, which John wisely didn’t mentio, and muttered on about things that needed doing around the flat, and about how he, John "was practical and capable and a DIY God but had a crappy arm and Sherlock who had two good arms, was as much use as one of Molly's corpses around the place on the basis of being lazy as fuck and how they needed to get someone in because the lighting transformer wouldn't fix itself", until he heard breathing sounds and looked down to find that Smelly Armpit Man was asleep, blowing ticklish puffs of breath into John's own armpit hair, and had thrown all the covers off himself so he was lying nude, beautiful and pale, on the bedcovers.

John smiled to himself, wriggled away slightly, and marvelled at the body. ignoring the octopus arm that now waved protestingly towards him as he did so, and then with some regret, feeling like a Victorian covering the piano legs for being indecent, reached over to cover Sherlock once again with the sheet. He'd find someone for the DIY. It probably wasn't safe to involve Sherlock anyway.

They slept deeply, soundly and long. No bad dreams. No recriminations. Curled up together like the coils in a snail shell, by the time the thin pale morning light of the city insinuated its way into the room.

They woke up hard and hungry, so fucked again, quick and rough this time, little prep and a lot of loud groaning and some frankly gratuitous biting, then fell asleep once more. Once they finally awoke again, they showered together and then dressed each other. They had time for a proper breakfast before Kirsty brought the children up from 221C.

This was what life at Baker Street ought to be like.

........................

The funeral of Anya Armstrong was held the following day. At best, it could be described as a hole-in-the-corner affair, pathetic in some ways and pathetically touching in others. It rained. Constantly.

It was attended by five members of the funeral directors staff, Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock, John, Rachel Armstrong-Holmes ( a quick deed poll job, rather than an adoption, since Rachel had decided she didn't want a formal adoption); and seventeen members of British secret intelligence, some overtly attending disguised as mourners and others skulking covertly. Oh and a bemused priest, who had been well briefed and well security checked (Anya having been born into the Roman Catholic faith).

There were many, many flowers, however. Those could be bought, family and friends could not. Sherlock was owed a favour by a society florist in Chelsea who was being blackmailed by a former lover and rather than accepting monetary payment for resolving the embarrassment and repatriating the extraordinarily embarrassing video footage involving an acorn squash, two Pekingese and a tin of condensed milk, the florist agreed to pay in flowers. He did Mary proud. The footage was duly retrieved, and destroyed, though John did remark on viewing it prior to destruction that they would have an awful job making a risotto with the remains of that squash, which seemed a waste.

....................

Anya was buried with all the comforting certainty of the rites of the Catholic Church; after a service in which Rachel spoke movingly of her mother, of the fun life they had shared in the sunshine and John spoke haltingly and equally movingly, about the woman who had saved a suicidal man, given him something to live for and let him go gracefully when things came to an end. John touched gently also on the other, darker side of Anya, that she would need to ask forgiveness for many things in this life, but also said that he had made his peace with her and that she had left her greatest gift with them in the shape of Rachel.

Unexpectedly, Mycroft also stood to say a few words. He was less charitable about Anya's past, describing some of her deeds as "undeniably truly wicked", but he also said that she undoubtedly loved her daughter, and that she was a good mother to her and that Our Lady would in her mercy grant her grace for that. That he was grateful to her, for not rejecting the help he had offered her to make a new life, because it had enabled her daughter to be the fine credit to her that Rachel was. And grateful to her for having the sense to agree to Mycroft being in place as a guardian for Rachel, which had made the traumatic events at least free of endless bureaucracy for the girl.

When he sat down, Rachel squeezed his hand. She wasn't offended by his words; she knew she had led the lonely life she had because of things her mother had done and that they were bad things, but she appreciated the measured way in which Mycroft spoke.

.................

Sherlock, obviously, made no speech, remaining silent throughout. He stared at the floor. Just once, he winced slightly and felt inside his jacket to his chest, rubbing slightly at the scar of the bullet wound, the one that Mary made. John didn't see him do it. All he could think was that if Mary had had her way, he would not have been here, and he and John would never have been together.

Outside in the sunshine, as he threw soil onto the coffin, John felt Sherlock's arm encircle him.

'It's over, isn't it. Her story. She ends here?'

'No, John. She doesn't end here, she doesn't really ever end at all. Rachel is her, she's Jim too and they will both live on through Rachel. Jim understood that, his way to get some kind of immortality. Personally I never sought it… that kind of immortality… but you know that.

‘But our story with her ends here today, yes.

‘It's time to go home, to our own family.'

.................

Over the next few weeks, life settled into something of a routine, if life with a mad consulting detective could ever be considered that.

John formally resigned his part-time job at the infants school down in Sussex and was overwhelmed by how sorry everyone was, especially some of the female teachers, to be losing him from their staff room. He even preened a little about it, which made Sherlock flounce and huff.

Mycroft sent in the cavalry to re-thatch and install electricity and heating in the Sussex cottage, which Sherlock was cross about but John secretly dearly welcomed. It had worried him a little, a thatched roof in not great condition with all those candles and oil lamps and tinies rushing about. Anyway, Sherlock would be able to do more experiments with electricity laid on.

Sherlock was grumpy and dissatisfied with The Work because Lestrade wouldn't give him any cases. Unimpressed by (once again) having a heroin user for a consultant and not thrilled at Sherlock's untruths to Molly when he dumped Parthalan on them, he had ruled that Sherlock would not be given any cases except "old cold" ones for three months and that he wanted him drug tested monthly during that time. Three clear tests and he was back in favour. One fail, and that was it.

So Sherlock was stuck with the dull dusty files and the tedium of the four and five point cases and John suffered with his grumbling. The nicotine patch count crept back up. On the other hand, their personal relationship was much improved by their being back in London together, although it did mean that to preserve his husband's sanity and their privacy, the children spent as much time in 221C's nanny flat as they did in their own home.

..............

They heard little of progress on Mary's killing, until a Tuesday morning in early March, about the time when the first pollution choked daffodils in creosoted council tubs provided the first hint in the city of the promise of spring.

Mycroft rang, to say that it was suspected that Blackwood was now in the UK and that they were struggling to locate his exact whereabouts once he had slipped from the cargo ship he'd hitched a lift on, slinking away when it reached the major container port of Felixstowe on the east coast of Suffolk. Mycroft thought that they "should be aware" and checked that John still had his gun, because SIS (publicly known as M16) still did not have a clear understanding of the motive for her killing.

John still had his gun.

Sherlock became more nervous, to the point of jumpy. Parthalan was attending a day school in Chelsea and while someone always accompanied him to and from the school, Sherlock was worried about the boy's tendency to wander off, if not constantly supervised. He'd never got far, or had any particularly coherent reason for why he'd done it, but it was an issue. So Sherlock harangued the head and governors of the school until they allowed him to insist that Bee wore a wristband that had a tracker in it, so that his whereabouts could be monitored. He also gave Mycroft hell, about the failure of M16 to catch up with Blackwood.

John was settling down back into London life. It was certainly easier to get things done when you weren't spending half the day cleaning oil lamps and making up the fires. Not that it would have taken most people half a day, but with his arm as it was, jobs involving heavy manual tasks were something he had to take at their own pace. He hated being ruled by this tyrant of a disability, and hated even more the reminder that it provided on a daily basis, of the experiences he'd only just lived through. He tried to remind himself that he HAD lived, that was the point.

..............

In late August, Mycroft came to visit with Rachel.

Sherlock concluded with a single glance that his brother was getting a lot of sex and from the perfume signature that clung to him, the lovely Tamara was implicated.

Sherlock had known Mycroft was bisexual, but it still came as something of a shock, to be confronted with that reality so starkly, as Sherlock couldn't remember the last time Mycroft had a serious relationship with a woman. And thinking about Mycroft and matters sexual, always evoked unbidden memories of their own two bodies, sweat slick and sliding together, which he had to banish firmly to the furthest corners of the under stairs cupboard of his Mind Palace. He didn't desire Mycroft, but it was impossible to ever forget something like that.

'Brother mine.'

'Mycroft. You look exhausted. She should take it easier on you. You're not as young as you were. But then, you never were.'

'Charming as always. I am fine, as you well know. And so is Rachel. We came around to let you know that Rachel is off to her new school next week. Apparently pupils are allowed to take a tuck box of treats with them and so we wondered if you two would like to contribute something to go in it?'

'Great idea', said John. 'Anything especially favoured?'

Mycroft took out a piece of paper ripped out of an exercise book. Girlish writing on it. "No aniseed, no sour things, no white chocolate". That last underlined four...no, five times.'

John noted the blacklist on his phone. Rachel, who'd been hanging up her coat, now came into the room. John smiled at her.

' Okay, sounds good. Are you looking forward to school?'

'I can't wait. Eaton Square is lovely but there's not many children around the area and it gets a bit boring. Mycroft's bought me a pony and she's waiting for me at the school. The staff have been schooling her so she'll be kind to me. My pony books say it takes three falls to make a horsewoman but Mycroft says I mustn't try to fall off a lot to be a horsewoman quicker, which is a bit of a swizz.'

John laughed.

'I'm with Mycroft on that one. Hat and body protector or no riding, right?'

Mycroft nodded. 'Right.'

.................

They chatted on like this for a while and then Mycroft turned as if to leave, but was beckoned back for a moment by Sherlock, as John and Rachel trotted off down the stairs and chatted with Mrs Hudson, who had heard them and wanted to find out how Rachel was doing.

'Am I to believe that you really came here just to ask us to buy chocolates, Mycroft? Not like you?'

'Indeed. No. I came to check for myself on your wellbeing. Can I assume Parthalan and Ishbel are well?'

'They are out with Kirsty at a city farm. They're fine.'

'Good. That is good. Because Blackwood has been in contact. Mary was signing up to a rival drugs cartel which my people have been trying to infiltrate. He's got wind of that and is claiming it was his men who killed her and that if we don't stop interfering, it will be us next.'

Sherlock shook his head.

'I'd like to see them try.'

'Yes, well, I'm just being careful, warning you. Don't let your guard down, brother mine.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Riding hats are compulsory in the UK for children when riding in public places, but not on private land. They are obligatory for any competitions, however. Body protectors are normally only mandated when doing such activities as cross country. 
> 
> Adults are not required to wear a hat by law, although it is very rare to see anyone hacking out (trail riding) without one. The only time adult riders in the UK are generally seen without hats are either if they are riding western style, or if they are wearing very traditional dress eg top hat for Grand Prix dressage or high level showing. Even there, times are changing and some top riders have set the example, most notably Charlotte Dujardin, the Olympic champion, who wears a riding hat.
> 
> ****
> 
> The school Rachel is attending and which is being considered for Bee is a fictional one. However the vision of loads of tiny children belting around on ponies over jumps on a warm summers evening in Dorset is based on a real school, and of a distant view of that scene that made OH and I stop our car and watch for a few minutes as the ponies zipped around. It just looked so much FUN. We have our own horses, but there's nothing better than being a little kid on a go kart of a pony that you can just point and shoot and its little legs hurtle, the pony as excited as you are....
> 
> \----------
> 
> Music for this Chapter
> 
> Chris de Burgh - The Girl with April in Her Eyes


	12. No Greater Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As summer draws to a close, the threat to the safety of Sherlock and John's family becomes all too real.....

The weeks and months went past and summer wore onto its scrubby and tired end. The pavements were baking, bleached white-pale and the weary commuters mainlined Evian bottles and sweated like swine on the packed, stifling Tube. The Beefeaters at the Tower and Horseguards at the Palace dropped like flies, their embarrassment at crumpling at their post only multiplied, by their plight being filmed by delighted tourists and uploaded instantly to YouTube.

Ice cream sales rocketed, 221B sweltered and John wondered why he'd ever left Sussex and the refreshing breeze on the beach near the cottage. They hadn't been there for months, he realised. Parthalan had started group ballet lessons and was doing outstandingly well, and refused point blank to leave London if it meant missing a session. It was no way for a five, nearly six year old to behave, but Sherlock, predictably, agreed with his son. It was like a skinny flamboyant Mafia.

Ishbel was three, growing like a weed all the time, less of a pudding now and getting into much more mischief. She toddled around at a surprising speed, like badgers and hedgehogs do along country lanes on summer evenings. John wondered if she waited until the adults were out of the room and then picked up her skirts and ran. It wouldn't surprise him. She had a poker face, that one, his girl. The naughtier she'd been, the more impassive her smiling face was.

............

As summer gave way to autumn, it was at last time for Parthalan to go to his new school and a uniform was procured, by Mycroft it seemed, since it just arrived out of the blue one day and Kirsty laid it out ready. It seemed terribly old-fashioned to John, a proper shirt and tie, scratchy wool blazer with Latin motto on the pocket badge and an actual cap? 

Parthalan looked stiff and small in the clothes, which nearly broke John's heart, but Bee was promised his first proper one-to-one dance lessons if he was good. This was a prize worth behaving for, and John and Sherlock both accompanied him on his first day, waving until he disappeared out of sight in his too-big uniform, clutching the hand of the teacher that he'd frowned at; clamping his mouth shut when she asked his name.

After three days his wrist tracker showed that he was currently running home, despite the fact that it was an hour before school ended. He was intercepted at the end of the street by Kirsty and brought home. He was unrepentant about running away from school and asked quietly whether "it might be possible that he might not go to the school tomorrow, or ever?" and instead "study dance and gymnastics as he believed they did in some countries in the world?". He wasn't able to name the countries. His imaginary world was filled with places where artistic endeavours of small boys were feted and rewarded. 

John had smiled at the solemn little speech, (but not laughed, because Bee was deadly serious and you shouldn't laugh at someone's dreams), ruffled his hair and told him he was 'just a little young for that' and that he needed to learn other things too, even if he didn't enjoy them as much. 'Even the Royal Ballet School at White Lodge in Windsor Great Park doesn't take children until they are ten, Bee?'

Bee did not know that. Bee was not pleased with that answer. But he settled just a little and enjoyed the schoolwork a little more, although making friends seemed beyond him still. It wasn't that he was actively unpopular. He just sat on his own, daydreaming, or practising gym rolls or dance steps. He never seemed embarrassed, or aware that this was out of the norm. Soon, the other children knew better than to disturb him and left him largely to his own devices.

Not all. Some of them were also aware from overhearing parents conversations that his parents were the famous Holmes and Watson. Some of their parents discussed their opinions of two gay men having a baby and bringing it up. Some of their children repeated their parents views to Parthalan. Who didn't know what to say in response, just screwed up his face at them in an awkward scrunch and walked away. Somehow, though, just like children who are bullied often do, he felt embarrassed and guilty himself, despite not having done anything wrong. 

So he didn't tell his parents, nor his teachers. Instead, he avoided talking to any other children at all. It was easier, that way. 

A boy took his lunch too, most days. He didn't know why, because the boy had a lunch of his own. Bee thought maybe he was very hungry, because he ate both the lunches. He didn't tell anyone about that, either. Instead, he waited until the other children had finished and then when the hall was empty, he would rifle through bags and satchels and eat the oddments he found there. He had a small appetite, and picked out the things that appealed to him; little boxes of raisins or nuts, carrot and celery sticks, small pieces of cheese. 

His inability or unwillingness to communicate, was making life harder for Bee than it should have been. When he was caught "stealing" the food from bags and the school telephoned Baker Street, John who answered the call, didn't tell Sherlock about it. He went to the school, listened politely to the teacher and then, having worked out what was really happening, held in his frustration at something so obvious being missed and told them that Bee would be coming home for lunch from now on. Kirsty or Mrs Hudson fed him in 221C.

John didn't want Sherlock to start worrying about his son's well-being any more than necessary.

.............

Kirsty was invaluable; not doing as many hours as she had because of splitting her time between Baker Street and Eaton Square, but in a way that was perfect, because John was back and he wanted to do as much as possible with the children himself, now he wasn't out teaching like he had been down in Sussex.

Sherlock had long since passed his three month moratorium on fresh case access, so he was engaged by Lestrade in some juicy and gory puzzles. There was a series of murders where the unfortunate victims each had an item of seafood stuffed into each nostril. The murderer was trying to create an entire plateau de fruits de mer, it appeared. Thankfully he was caught relatively promptly. Well, admittedly after the winkles, cockles, grey shrimps, prawns and langoustine, but mercifully before the crayfish, the lobster and crab. And there was a blackmail case where the blackmail letters were written in goat urine. That had been a tricky case, but the stinkiness outdid the trickiness by some degree.....

.............

Sex was very good indeed. It was strange too, though, they'd been switching more recently, Sherlock topping. John seemed to not only have finally got over the rape flashbacks, but also somehow felt more at ease with being the recipient than he had ever been before. Maybe he'd just got old enough and wise enough not to care about any perceived stigma. Maybe it was so long since he'd been with a woman, that gay sex in all its variety, now seemed the norm.

Maybe he just fancied a change. He wasn't sure, but he was enjoying letting go. Not being submissive, of course, John was never going to remotely fit that mould. But just being more relaxed with taking pleasure he was offered.

So now, when Sherlock topped, it wasn't all about dominance and proving a point, as it had been once, it could also be about a different kind of closeness, of feeling himself surround Sherlock, of being stimulated and satisfied by Sherlock's cock inside him.

John was surprising himself, these days.

On the whole, then, things were really good. John was happy. Sherlock seemed content and relatively stable. Parthalan too, seemed sort of OK, provided they danced to his demanding tune. Ishbel, well. She was always happy, really. His sunshine girl.

.................

Kirsty was good at taking the children out for interesting trips. They tended to let her do these exciting but time-consuming treats, because if John or Sherlock did them, they inevitably got interrupted by a case and then the children got upset. So better for Kirsty to take them.

Today, a sunny warm day in late October, it was the London Aquarium.

Kirsty rang after lunch, to say they had just finished at the aquarium and would be back in about an hour.

That was the last that was heard from them.

Kirsty and the two children didn't arrive back at 221B.

......................

 

Lestrade's men found the nanny, tied up and gagged far more tightly than necessary, six hours later in the cellar of a derelict house in Hackney, after a tip-off from one of the Homeless Network that strange noises were coming from one of their former squats. Ishbel was nearby, thank God, still strapped into her buggy, screaming her very cross head off. Kirsty was largely unharmed, save for a number of nasty bruises and kicks that she'd acquired as she tried to fight off her attackers. But she was in a state of shock and very distressed.

There was absolutely no sign of Parthalan Mycroft Watson-Holmes. 

\-------------

Lestrade swore and cursed. This was the worst possible outcome of this, for all sorts of reasons. Sherlock, Mycroft, both of them bound up in Bee's welfare. Sherlock, especially, bound to his son with a complex web of love and pain. Mycroft bound to Sherlock and Bee with all his heart.

Kirsty couldn't give any useful detailed descriptions. The three men were masked and armed with handguns and they did not speak once during the whole episode.

The three of them, Kirsty, Bee and Ishbel, been walking across the park from the cafe that did the nice ice cream, back to the car and she'd had her cone in one hand and was pushing the buggy with the other. Parthalan was dawdling behind, picking up last autumn's dried crunchy leaves. But he was only a few steps behind and she could see him out of the corner of her eye.......Well, obviously she could see him until the moment that she couldn't.

One minute he was there; the next he wasn't and as she span round, she saw that he was now in a burly stranger’s arms, a hand over his mouth, spider arms flailing helplessly, being bundled away.

She was seized herself just a few moments later, before she could help Bee and although she tried to fight them and get to him, she was subdued by something over her mouth; some cloth with a bitter tasting chemical and she couldn't get to her rape alarm or anything else to help; the next thing she knew, she was here, in this awful place, with Ishbel: and Parthalan… at this she started to cry… Parthalan was nowhere. Gone. It had been him they were after, that she was clear about.

The men and Bee, had vanished without a trace.

...........

Greg took the pathetically depleted party home. Kirsty still had Parthalan's jacket, he'd got too hot running around and she'd hooked it onto the pushchair handle. She had it bunched in her hands and was fiddling with the buttons incessantly. 

He was only wearing a T-shirt and shorts.

He wasn't even six yet. 

Once home, John, who had been told the news by Lestrade over the phone and had then had to tell Sherlock who went into some kind of frozen shock; John tended to Kirsty and Ishbel as best as he could while wiping tears away from his eyes. His fingers shook and his bad arm ached much more than it normally would. He kept stealing glances over to Sherlock, who was staring out of the window of 221B, sightless and silent, like a forgotten statue in the overgrown and neglected corner of a graveyard.

Once John finished with his patient's immediate medical attentions and passed the now patched-up Kirsty to Mrs Hudson to comfort with tea and cakes downstairs, (she being a tough Scottish lassie and requiring little more than some gauze, her fly-cup and sweet cake piece), he went and stood beside his husband, who looked grim faced and murderous.

'Where is he, John? What are they doing to him? What the fuck are they doing to him?'

Sherlock looked close to breaking and John didn't know how to comfort him, or even to comfort himself. He stood behind and to one side, and leaned his head against the back of Sherlock's shoulder, breathing in his smell, trying to use the pleasure it gave him to quell the rising feeling of nausea and panic in his own gut.

There was nothing he could say. What comfort could he give as to Bee's fate? None. Words were meaningless. Mute dragging fear held them both entirely paralysed in its relentless grasp.

.............

John had already called Mycroft, who at the time of his call had been on his way to dinner at Chequers with the PM. He promptly stood up the Prime Minister, who "quite understood, Mycroft" and was back in Baker Street within fifteen minutes. John raised his eyebrows at the speed: Chequers was in Buckinghamshire?

'Helicopter, John', Mycroft explained tersely, as if such things appeared at the mere click of a finger. Maybe they did for a Holmes emergency, since it turned out to have been intended to be the PM's lift back to London? The PM was now twiddling his thumbs and the chopper would now be going back to Chequers a second time for the original VIP passenger.

On his arrival, Mycroft strode in with his Holmes loping gait, briskly nodding at John who was now standing by the fireplace and walked straight over to where Sherlock stood at the window, putting his hand gently on his brother's shoulder. Sherlock turned, his face crumpling and literally fell into his arms. Mycroft, one of the few people who was taller than Sherlock, embraced him bodily, holding him tight and close and for once, probably for the first time in their entire married life, John realised that he really didn't feel uncomfortable or resentful. This wasn't the Mycroft who suppressed sexual desire for his brother, it was the Mycroft he had once been, the one before William was raped, the Mycroft he seemed to be rediscovering now; one whose love for his brother was all consuming and completely platonic.

Their shared love of Sherlock's son, the son Mycroft could never father and Sherlock never wanted to father, was bringing them back together as perhaps nothing else could ever have done.

..............

Sherlock's head was deeply buried in his brother's shoulder and John could see his shoulders shaking silently. Eventually, Mycroft murmured to Sherlock, manoeuvred his brother over to the sofa and sat him carefully down. Then he started speaking to him, but with a voice that was so quiet that John struggled to make out what he was saying, only that it was in French and as he spoke on, Sherlock occasionally nodded or buried his head deeper still back into his brother's chest. The Jermyn Street tailor-made shirt and silk tie were stained darker with tears.

John left them, and tried to keep himself busy, tending to Ishbel, who for once was fractious, having maybe sensed the upset in the atmosphere. He also occupied himself making tea. He reflected on the fact that he didn't feel jealous that Sherlock could share his trauma more easily with Mycroft than with himself. Sherlock wanted to keep the worst of his vulnerabilities from being open to John, which was why he ran away when things got bad. And while Mycroft wasn't a direct parent to Parthalan, he was related by blood and he was the prime instigator of the boy coming to exist.

In any case, in extremis, Sherlock would turn to the man who had always comforted him most, as a toddler, as a child and now as a man and that man was Mycroft.

..............

Once the tea was ready, and the tray set down on the low table in front of the fire, John quietly asked Mycroft about the tracker wristband Parthalan had worn to prevent his wandering out of school. Could they not find him using that?

Mycroft shook his head.

'Unfortunately John, whilst that was initially overlooked by the kidnappers, enabling us to follow the trail as far as just north of Birmingham, it then started signalling at a static location and our people found it discarded on the embankment of the M1 motorway; likely simply hurled from the window of a moving vehicle, one apparently heading north.'

John had expected this. But it was a shock to realise how far away Parthalan was already… assuming he was… No, don't think of that… He'd thought the days of this kind of horror were behind him. And it was so much worse when your young child was involved and not yourself. He'd experienced blind terror for himself and for Sherlock, but this pain was in some way of a different order.

'What about CCTV?'

'There's footage still being analysed from around the Park entrances, both foot traffic and any vehicles coming in and out the Park. That may take some time.'

'Which we don't have', said John, frustrated. 'Why haven't they been in contact?'

Mycroft smiled, very thinly.

'It seems that they are intending us to stew for a while, perhaps, John? Increase the psychological pressure?'

John nodded. 'It's working', he said, grimly.

................

John was puzzled as to why Sherlock was not itching to get out on the trail to hunt down his son. His face was hidden, still, in the sofa cushions, but the black curls were visible and messy as he curled there, hunched against the world. He looked like all the air had been sucked out of him, leaving just a crumpled shell, still and useless.

He seems paralysed by fear, John thought. I never thought I'd see that? Even when I've been in danger, he can execute what needs to be done. But this, with a child, his child; this is too much for him. He's shutting down.

John then suddenly realised what he then suspected Mycroft had appreciated from the start; that Sherlock's head must be full of all the things he would imagine about what might happen to a small boy abducted by strangers, and that with his own experiences of abuse, that must be a very particular and extreme form of torture. 

He thought for a moment, coming to a decision and, taking Mycroft aside, after a brief and surprisingly civil exchange, he went and spoke quietly to Sherlock. He was very careful not to physically touch his husband, for fear of frightening or startling him, given the scenarios he might be playing through his troubled mind. This was an occasion where Sherlock's fears were deeper than his need for touch and comfort.

'Sherlock, it's me, John. Everything's going to be OK, hmm. We're going to find him, love and get him back, safe and unharmed, yeah?' This was a promise John knew he shouldn't make, couldn't make, but he had to say it. He rarely called Sherlock any cute endearments like 'love', but now, uniquely, seemed a good time for such words.

'I think you need to rest, baby? So I'm going to help you do that now, just so that you're nice and bright, darling, for when we bring Bee back to you soon. He'll need you there for him, love, in good shape, won't he? Can you sit up for me? I'm going to give you an injection. Tell me if that's not ok.'

...............

John half expected a violent outburst or some form at least of protest, but instead, Sherlock meekly sat up slowly, with a look of pain and humiliated shame and then mutely offered up his arm to John, who quickly drew up a hefty dose of sleeping sedative (Mycroft's powers keeping him well supplied with various medical supplies), and, taking a deep breath ("don't like doing this, don't like it, no choice but I don't like it") injected his husband with the drug.

Then, no longer holding back, he knelt down and held Sherlock's body close to his own and stroked his hair, muttering 'It'll be OK, everything will be fine, he'll be back soon. Sleep, my good lad. My only love."). As Sherlock nodded and began to sag and sink back down into the sofa cushions, John lent forward and kissed his eyelids. A minute later, and Sherlock was peaceful and still. John reluctantly loosed himself from the embrace, and after one last brush of his fingers across Sherlock's dry lips, he stood.

Mycroft nodded at John.

'Thankyou, Doctor Watson. It's not what one would wish, of course, but I think we both know that however traumatic this is for us, it is likely to be many times as traumatic for Sherlock.'

John grimaced.

'I just hope he can get some rest. That dose should keep him asleep or at least quiet and peaceful for maybe eighteen to twenty four hours. If Bee isn't back by then, we have a problem as with his drug issues I'm not keen to be repeating such a long dose. In the meantime, can we get a nurse in to monitor him? If we have to leave I don't want him left unattended by someone medically trained.'

Mycroft made some calls. The nurse came in a taxi.

Sherlock had chosen to hide from this trauma, opting out, knowing he was not strong enough to see it through. His son's life would be in the hands of his brother and his husband. Men who were brave enough to risk their lives doing it and who loved both Sherlock and Parthalan enough to die trying, if needed.

...............

Four hours later, however, they were no closer to tracking down Parthalan, let alone rescuing him. Then the call came through. A burn phone, unregistered pay as you go, used only for this call. A voice distorter. The only hope was triangulating the phone call based on the nearest masts. It was a powerful technique, used in murders to prove, for example, that the accused was lying when they said the missing children were safe and well and left their company alive. Phone pings to the mast proving the children, or at least their phone, had never moved again from the vicinity of the accused's property.

The disembodied voice on the phone said that they did not wish to harm the boy, but that failing the payment of £5million sterling, plus the handing over of Mycroft Holmes, in exchange for the boy, within 24 hours, the old Mafia tradition would be followed. One of the boy's severed fingers would be delivered every eight hours. Followed by toes, other extremities, ears, nose, "others" etc etc.'

The caller rang off. Mycroft swallowed hard. Five. Years. Old. John took the mobile from his grasp again. He'd heard what they said. Sherlock was oblivious of course and John intended it should stay that way. He felt a cold icy fury ripping through him and found it difficult to maintain self-control. His son, Sherlock's blood, so small and nervous already, in the hands of these maniacs...

He turned to Mycroft.

'Any luck on the mobile tracking?'

Yes, some. They're somewhere near Stirling, Scotland. There's not so many masts there so it's harder to get a tight location but on the other hand strangers will stand out more up there. I'm sending local forces to the area. There's a chopper coming for us, we'll pick it up at NSY. Make sure you are armed.'

John nodded and then looked down at the sleeping, drugged, Sherlock.

'Is he coming?'

Yes, and the nurse too. We need him there when we get Bee out of there, he will be distraught if Sherlock isn't there. Where I'm thinking they are, there's a hotel on the banks of the small loch. The food is excellent, so it's nearly always full but I imagine they will find room for us when it's explained. Sherlock can stay there, guarded, while we extract Bee.

..............

John was worried. Ambushing a remote hideout on a Scottish hillside was not going to be easy.

'What about their demands? For the five million and yourself? How will you get Bee out without handing it over and yourself?'

Mycroft smiled tightly.

'Oh, I won't, John. That would be far too risky. I intended to hand over both the full amount of the money, and myself, in exchange for Parthalan's safe return to you and Sherlock. Did I not mention?'

And Mycroft walked across the room, picked up his phone and began talking to someone about a four million pound loan and a one million pound cash withdrawal...

John rubbed his face in disbelief.

Mycroft looked back at him.

'Nothing will be permitted to happen to that child, John. He will not be allowed to come to harm. I will do whatever it takes, whatever the price, to ensure it. You have my word.'

..............

This was it, then, thought John. Mycroft is going to risk his life and a good chunk of the family assets to try to free our son.

He felt conflicted. It should be him? He and Sherlock were Parthalan's parents. But they weren't the one disrupting a lucrative drugs trade. So they weren't who the kidnappers wanted; they wanted Mycroft, to do God knows what with and they wanted his money. And Mycroft was going to give them both of them.

'You can't just agree, Mycroft, they might kill you. They probably will kill you', said John, trying desperately to think of another option. 'Can we not storm their hideout once we've pin-pointed it? You did that with the Barbican and you did it again with me and my kidnappers.'

Mycroft looked weary and resigned.

'Not an option, John, in this case, I'm afraid. There are two reasons.

‘One, using siege tactics, we didn't get either of you out before you had already been harmed by your respective captors, in your case, very severely. And two, there was a risk of the captive being killed during the rescue. Which, to put it bluntly, was an acceptable risk for an adult hostage, even my brother, but is unacceptable for a five year old child.

‘I hope that it will be possible to extract Parthalan without him coming to any physical harm. If we can achieve that, then any and all "collateral damage" will be an acceptable price to pay.'

'Even if you die in the process.'

'Even if I die in the process, John. I am almost fifty, have no heir save for Bee and I love that beautiful child as if he was my own. He is the future of the Holmes story and he WILL be here to write it. If I can be there to watch him, all to the good. But if not, don't ever think that I regretted doing it.

‘Now, we must make preparations. We have a long journey ahead of us.


	13. Parthalan's story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened, from Bee's point of view. And Mycroft has to make very improvised plans in this all or nothing gamble.

When the bad man grabbed him, Parthalan had been about to call out to Kirsty about two things.

First, he'd found a really especially shiny conker from one of the huge horse chestnut trees that graced the park. There'd been a lot to choose from, which was why he had fallen behind a little. The biggest one wasn't the shiniest, and the shiniest one had a beetle on it that he didn't want to squash.

Second, he meant to tell her that there was a funny man who was kind of hiding behind a tree and did Kirsty think he wanted to play hide and seek?

The conker had fallen from his hand as he was seized from behind, not by Hide and Seek Man but another, who Bee hadn't seen. And then there were more of them, and Kirsty was shouting and Ishbel was crying.

Parthalan tried to struggle as he was picked up and the man holding him walked off quickly. Not running just walking quickly. Parthalan felt his heart racing, his and the man's too.

He was going to call out, or leave a trail for someone to follow like in Hansel and Gretel which Dad John had only read to Bee once, because Papa hated the story for some reason, something to do with an old case, he said, and then Bee had horrible nightmares about it.

But he didn't have any breadcrumbs and then the man had his hand over Parthalan's mouth so it was all he could do to breathe. He did try kicking but that just seemed to make the man angrier.

He didn't know what he should do. He knew not to go off with strangers, but that supposed the stranger asked him to go with him. This man hadn't asked. He'd grabbed.

He started to cry and then, because of the hand over his mouth, to hyperventilate and choke. That made the man angrier. All the gang were together now, by a car, and suddenly the hand was replaced with a cloth that smelt sweet and sickly and Bee felt everything receding into a blur, and then… the darkness closed in, and he was gone.

...........

When he woke, he was tied up with the nasty blue nylon rope that makes really tight knots and really bad rope burns, in the footwell of a big car, bigger than the one in the park. There was no sign of Kirsty or Ishbel, and he quickly realised there was no one there to help him, no one to talk to. Only the people that had taken him. Even though he was only almost six, he did realise that was what had happened. He had been taken. Papa and Daddy had said enough to him for him to know that strangers taking you away was not good, because they might not let you come home again.

Now he was very scared. He started to cry.

The man sitting nearest to him in the back seats pulled him hard, by his dark curly hair.

'Shut the fuck up, if you don't want a kick in the head. Keep quiet, or I'll put this in your mouth', pointing to a cloth gag beside him on the seat.

Parthalan swallowed hard. The man punched him hard just at the back of his neck anyway. He cried out and flinched.

'You gonna keep quiet then?'

Bee, biting his lip to try to not continue to cry, nodded miserably.

'Good. Know what's good for you, and you won't get hurt. At least, not unless we don't get what we want. A lot of money and that fucking annoying prick of an uncle of yours. That's what we're going to swap you for. That family are going to pay us five million pounds and your uncle's life for you. You must feel very special. Do you feel special, boy?'

Parthalan swallowed. He only had one uncle that he could think of, and that was Uncle Mycroft? He didn't really understand what the man meant.

Would they take Uncle away and him not be allowed to come back? Would he have to work for these men doing bad stuff? The idea of five million pounds didn't mean that much to him, other than sounding like an awful lot. He wished he was older, and could fight these men, or escape, but he knew he was trapped with them unless Uncle Mycroft could somehow come up with a plan to free him and avoid whatever they planned to do to one or both of them.

It didn't seem very hopeful. So he cried, but kept his tears wise, silent ones.

.............

They drove north all that day, stopping only twice to pick up fuel and some snacks. Parthalan was offered some kind of pasty and a drink, but he refused to take anything from his captors. Even if he'd agreed to eat it they would have had to feed it to him as both his arms and legs were bound.

He wondered what Rachel was doing now, and Ishbel? He wondered if Papa knew he was gone, and supposed he must do, by now. He wondered what school would say about him not turning up, and whether he would get into trouble. He didn't want to get into more trouble at school than his daydreaming and failure to "Mix With The Other Children" already led him into.

He wanted to go home now, very, very badly.

..........

Some time after dark, the roads started to get smaller. They were passing through villages, Bee could tell from the streetlights, but they were scattered and sparse. He could see the tops of the tallest ones, and they were grey stone and pointy roofed.

Unbeknownst to Parthalan, the last village they passed through was Balquhidder, and they were now in the heart of Highland Perthshire. They drove very close to the graveyard where the outlaw Rob Roy is buried, his gravestone defiantly proclaiming "Macgregor, despite them"; the utterance of the clan name having been outlawed, along with the man. His revenge carved in stone.

But they were not here as tourists and so they pressed on, along the loch side, on a single track road that stretched for miles. It ended at the shore of the diminutive Loch Voil.

They didn't go as far as the small hotel that stood alone looking over the loch, instead stopping a half mile away, unseen, and untying Bee's legs and forcing him out of the car, they headed up the rough heather hillside on a path that was little more than a narrow sheep track. Parthalan's limbs were stiff and cramped after so long confined and bound, and his short stature meant he was making much slower progress than the men wanted. He also didn't have a torch like them, as they didn't trust him not to try and flash signals. So he stumbled and they swore and he stumbled more and they slapped his legs and he wondered if he would make it to wherever they were going, and whether Uncle Mycroft would even find anyone to rescue when he came.

After several hours of stumbling, halting progress, and shoves and swearing, always uphill, the black skies and the dark rain falling on the sodden party, they were there, at their destination. The destination turned out to be a bothy, a small stone shepherds hut now used by climbers as a base for scaling the nearby peaks or parties out stalking the red deer on the lower slopes. If the weather closed in, it provided a safe place to shelter for a few hours or even for the night. There were no facilities in the small stone building except a small fireplace and hard wooden bunks.

But it was isolated, had a stream nearby for water and had views for miles around. No one could approach this place unnoticed. And in weather like this, the only possible disturbance was from climbers, who would be "persuaded" to go elsewhere if they did happen to turn up.

..................

Parthalan was just glad to see a roof and a bed of sorts. At least, he was until it became clear that four bunk spaces and four men and a child did not compute. He was going to be sleeping on the stone floor, then, it appeared, as a thin sleeping bag and cushion smelling strongly of diesel and dog were dropped in front of him. He glared up at the cushion dropper. He stuck his chin out bravely.

'Uncle Mycroft won't give you any money if you are mean to me', he said, sounding braver than he felt by a long way.

'Oh I think he will', said the man who appeared to be in charge. 'Because we've told him what's going to happen to you if he doesn't. Would you like to know what that is?

Parthalan shook his head, suddenly frightened once more. But the man took no notice.

'We're going to send him pieces of you bit by bit, fingers first, then toes then other bits. So I don't think he will worry about whether you are sleeping on the floor or not, do you? He should be worrying more about how much of you there is going to be left to send home.'

Parthalan heard the words with escalating horror. He couldn't imagine the man was serious. Things like that only happened in fairy stories, and only to ogres and monsters. Not to people. Not to him. He decided the man was teasing him. He had to be.

'Don't be silly. People don't do that, not in real life.'

'You reckon do you? Well you're going to find out. If we don't have Mycroft Holmes and the money by tomorrow lunchtime, he's going to get one of your severed fingers in a matchbox.'

Bee looked at him. He did look angry. And… serious… Bee began to feel properly terrified now. He didn't say anything else about the sleeping arrangement, muted by fear. He just curled himself up in the sleeping bag, in a small tight circle like a dog and shivered with fear and cold.

That night was filled with snoring men. Sometimes there were farts. All of them complained about the hardness of the bunks at various times. One of them seemed to be touching himself at one point. Parthalan was struggling to sleep, the cold making it hard to relax enough from shivering to drop off. He lay awake, blinking back tears and wondering if anyone was going to find him....... 

.............

As morning broke, things looked a little better, mainly because he was fed for the first time since he'd spurned the pasty from the petrol station yesterday. This time, he was so cold and hungry that he sulkily took the food he was offered and ate the bacon roll greedily. There was milk, too and he drank. He felt a little better and warmer once he'd finished his meal. But the feeling wore off quickly, as fear returned to dominate his thoughts. If they cut off his fingers and toes, he'd never be able to dance again. He'd hardly started. He wanted to dance. It wasn't fair. He was little. It wasn't fair.

It wasn't long after breakfast that Bee realised one of the men wasn't there and he gathered he was on lookout duty, down on the thin silver ribbon of narrow Tarmac that comprised the only way out of the valley, leading back towards the village of Balquhidder. There were walkie talkies, because of the lack of mobile signal in the valley and about an hour after the meal had ended, Bee heard a crackle and a hiss and then a voice came over it. He couldn't hear exactly what was said but he got the sense of it.

There was a black Range Rover heading for their location along the valley road. It had passed the access point to the track up to the bothy and was heading for the hotel further along the loch side.

.............

According to the spotter, in the car was Mycroft Holmes and his assistant, Anthea, Sir John Watson and what appeared to be a semi conscious Sherlock Holmes with a medical person.

'Not surprised about the Druggie, that one, of course, Sherlock Holmes', commented one of the men, with relish. ‘Shouting and yelling in the airport. Saw him in the papers a few weeks back. Looked spaced out like you wouldn't believe. Fucking faggot as well, anyway. Well, they both are, they reckon, although they say Mycroft Holmes will play either way. With his looks I guess he can't be fussy. That Sherlock, though, he's a regular arse bandit and no shame about it, either.'

He turned to Parthalan.

'You must be a fucking miracle of modern science. Poofs buying babies, that's how they had you, isn't it? What's it like having two arse bandits as parents? What do you call them? Do they touch you at night? Haven't Social Services got involved, found you a proper family yet, with a Mum and Dad? A normal, decent family?'

Parthalan stood his ground. He'd already had a bit of this at school. But this man was saying far worse things, disgusting things. He knew what the man meant by touching. He meant wrong touching, touching in and on things. Papa and Dad had told him about okay things and not okay things. His chin wobbled a little.

'I call John 'Dad' and Sherlock 'Papa'. And they didn't buy me, I was made the same way babies are normally, when mummies and daddies can't make them inside them, so they put their stuff in the dish and mix it up there. And I've met my mummy who helped make me and she's very nice, but she's more an Aunty really and she's busy shooting bad people so Dad and Papa are my parents. They're much better than you would ever be and they don't do bad touching, you're horrible to say that and I don't see why you're concerned about my home life when you've taken me away from my home yourself and you won't let me go home? I don't see why I have to listen to you, because you aren't a nice man or a kind man and my parents, Dad and Papa are both kind and they are both nice and they're going to be really, really angry. Dad especially. He was in the army and I've seen his gun.'

With that, Parthalan turned his head away from the man and, although tied to a chair, tried to look nonchalant.

The man laughed.

Well, you've got spirit, I'll say that. But that won't save you if we don't get the money and Mycroft Holmes' head on a plate.'

..............

They took him back inside the bothy, then and tied him up again. They didn't know when things might start kicking off. Bee knew better than to fight them. He was tired, and frightened and, although he tried not to think about fingers and toes being cut off, it was all he could think of.

He loved Uncle Mycroft, very much, but at this moment, he was a child and he wished that Mycroft would come and take his place and he could go home. He didn't want anything to happen to his uncle, but his fear for himself was greater than anything. He would leave it to the adults to be brave. He didn't feel brave. He thought he didn't have any tears left, so the new bout took him by surprise. Maybe he was just tired. Maybe they would let him go home soon and this game would be over.

...............

It was about three hours later, at lunchtime, when the spotter radioed up to the bothy.

'He's coming. Mycroft Holmes. He's alone. And he's brought a wheeled suitcase.'

The others conferred.

'Bring him up here. Stop twenty yards from the bothy. If that case is booby trapped I'm not going up with it. We'll make him open it himself, with us standing away but guns trained on him. Make him take some out as well, in case that's a trigger.'

'Roger, he's approaching now.'

.................

Some minutes later the spotter guard appeared, along with Mycroft, who was short of breath after the steep and scrambling walk dragging the case. The elder Holmes looked calm and serious. The case, a Samsonite hard shell graphite number, looked like a standard case for a long haul holiday, rather than the rather dowdy transport method for a lot of money.

The spotter guard rejoined his comrades, whose weapons were trained on Mycroft.

'He says its a million in the case, the rest is at the hotel. Couldn't carry it all, he says, not on foot. He says he's happy to open it but it's all there and all genuine. Says the cash in this case is from his account and the rest is raised on his London home. He's got paperwork to show he borrowed the four mill.'

'Alright then', said the ringleader. (Was it Blackwood? Mycroft didn't know, the man was muffled up so severely)?

'Mr Holmes, it's a windy night and we're not losing any of that cash so I need you to go into the bothy with Pete here and just inside the doorway, open the case and give Pete a bundle of the money. No tricks or games. You did well getting here so fast, he's still intact for now.'

...................

Mycroft stepped forward with the case and then stopped.

'When you have the money, what do you intend to do with me?'

The man smiled.

'We're going to shoot you in the head, Mr Holmes. You're a fucking nuisance and I doubt you'll be missed by many in our line of work. We might have shown mercy for the sake of your children, but of course you don't have any of those so that's not relevant is it?

‘The kid will be freed, but there's no walking away for you, I'm afraid. Sorry.'

'I understand', said Mycroft, thoughtfully. 'I had expected that to be your answer and why you had brought me here. And you knew that the one thing, perhaps the only things I would lay down my life for, aside from serving my country, would be my brother, or his son. Well done you, you read that one absolutely right.

‘If Parthalan goes free, I have no regrets whatsoever, because although you say I have no children, I do. I have a seven year old orphan at home who just lost her mother and I am the only family she now has. And I have Parthalan, who has brought me more joy in the last five years than I experienced in the previous twenty.'

With that, and his gaze never wavering from the ringleader's stare, Mycroft walked slowly towards the bothy. His body was tense and ramrod straight, but his head was held high, and he never hesitated, though he could sense the gun pointing at the back of his head.

................

As he entered the threshold, he glanced round and immediately saw Bee sheltering in the corner of the room. He looked terrified, but tried to smile when he saw Mycroft. Mycroft smiled back at him, putting all his warmth and emotion into the smile, wanting Bee to know that he would try to make things right. He knew that once the money was in the men's hands, even just the million, he and Parthalan were dependent on them keeping their word about releasing Bee.

He spoke loudly to be heard above the gusting wind, his voice calm and deep to communicate a confidence and lack of fear in contrast to his racing heart. One last appeal.

'Now you have me, you don't need the boy. Let him go.'

'Why would we do that? We've got both of you. Let's see the money first.'

Mycroft sighed. Plan A hadn't worked, then, although he hadn't expected it to. Plan B had much more risk, but there wasn't much option. He didn't like putting Bee at any risk but he wasn't sure the boy was going to be allowed to leave alive. These were not men of honour. He suspected they were both to be shot, to avoid Bee being able to identify his captors.

So, Plan B it was to be.

He bent down, very, very slowly and he opened the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: The location in this chapter is real. The small hotel at Loch Voil near Balquhidder in Scotland is Monachyle Mhor, whose chef patron Tom Lewis produces some of the best food in Scotland, and the hotel has one of the most tranquil and beautiful settings. I've been lucky enough to stay there a couple of times. The hotel own the estate around the hotel, so much of the produce comes from there. (The bothy is however entirely fictional).
> 
> Rob Roy's grave does indeed lie in the graveyard at Balquhidder and the inscription is as described.


	14. Life changing events....

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the explosion at the bothy hideout, for Mycroft and Parthalan. And an unexpected visitor makes a final and very meaningful request.

It wasn't the most subtle of plans, nor the most detailed. There hadn't been time to work out anything better. Essentially it relied on chaos and luck.

As Mycroft opened the case, which he'd hoped to do in the open, further away from Parthalan, an explosion ripped out of the object. It surprised him, slightly, though he'd witnessed many explosions before. He supposed it was different when you were essentially bending over the bomb. 

There was flying debris and flame and the sound of smoke grenades going up. Mycroft muttered a prayer to a God he no longer believed in, to save Bee, to protect Sherlock and to grant him his single final wish: - to see his elder brother Sherrinford once again. 

Mycroft heard the explosion some time after he felt himself being lifted up bodily and thrown back to the ground. He wondered if he was dead. But he couldn't be, could he, if he was hearing that. 

Alive, then. Not dead, which was distinctly unexpected.....

But he was now lying outside the cottage, not inside, apparently he must have been blown straight out of the doorway. The gang member who had been standing next to the suitcase to one side had taken the full force of the explosion and was very clearly dead. Very clearly as in, separated into a number of component parts which are best kept attached for the continuation of life. That sort of dead.

The other men had fled across and down the hillside like the cowards they were. Mycroft suspected they might try an armed raid on the party at the hotel to retrieve the £4million. Which didn't exist. They would be surprised when they found only Lestrade, some Met firearms officers and a generous sprinkling of M16 snipers.

His thoughts were coming and going. No pain. Not yet. He knew about that. You didn't feel it, at first. The adrenalin protecting the victim from feeling. The chemical equivalent of sticking your fingers in your ears and singing 'la la la la'. 

Eventually, you run out of energy to sing. Eventually, the adrenalin lowers. And then you start to know you are alive by feeling pain.

...............

Two things happened next, almost simultaneously.

Mycroft heard Parthalan calling out to him. And realised he couldn't feel his lower right leg.

Parthalan first. Before the shock gets me, he thought. Before I look to see what I think I'll see. He called back to him, praying that the boy had been far enough back into the structure. And his prayers were answered, as a small smoke blackened figure appeared in his sight, like a small dirty angel. He held out his arms to the bedraggled boy.

Bee then saw what Mycroft didn't want him to have to see, but could do nothing to prevent it and burst into tears; Mycroft tried to comfort him. But Bee shook his head wildly when he did so and just pointed a shaking finger down towards Mycroft's feet.

Time to look. He gritted his teeth.

Up to this point, shock and adrenalin had been good servants to Mycroft and he'd felt no pain. But like a Disney cartoon where the characters run off the edge of a cliff, but are suspended in mid-air and don't start to fall until the moment they look down, so Mycroft now gazed down and wondered where his right leg below the knee was, exactly, just as the waves of excruciating pain hit him. 

The grass was a lake of crimson. It was pumping out like a fuel bowser. He was bleeding out. Fast.

He managed to beckon Bee to his side. The boy looked terrified. Mycroft felt terrible to be putting him through this. He tried to smile though he suspected it looked more of a grimace, seeing Parthalan's face. 

'Go down the hillside to the nearest tree, a silver birch, you know them don't you? The ones with the smooth pale papery bark, with the dark horizontal slashes. By the stream. Go quickly, as quick as you can. Fetch the mobile phone that's in the carrier bag at the base of the tree and press number 5 on the keypad. Five. Remember that. That will call help. Before you do that, can you bring me those two pieces of baler twine from the barbed wire fence?' A nod. 'Good lad. Probably quickly would be best.'

Mycroft took the twine, while struggling to stay conscious. He tied it around his leg above the ragged amputation. He tied it as tightly as he could. The pain was blinding now and there was no strength left in his arms. He felt tired and just wanted to sleep. At last the knot was secure. The blood flow slowed somewhat, but by no means stopped. The pool of already spilled blood was seeping far beyond his prone body, and Bee's shoes were stained with it. 

Legwork, he decided, was an overrated affair. Then, having done all he reasonably could for his own survival, Mycroft promptly and mercifully passed out.

The last thing he saw, were two thin legs and the red-splattered legs and shoes hurtling off down the hillside. He wondered if it was the last thing he would ever see.

..................

Bee did his duty well. Being only almost six, his legs weren't that long, but they were long for his age and it was downhill and it mattered. Within half an hour, the chopper that had been sitting waiting the other side of Balquhidder was winching Mycroft up from the hillside, and dropping off John at the bothy to be reunited with Parthalan.

The little boy was crying uncontrollably now.

'His leg, Dad. It came off. I saw bits of it all over. Like meat. He tied it up with string.'

'I know he did, Bee. I know.'

John was finding it hard to control his emotions, having seen patients in Afghanistan with similar injuries. He smiled a smile that was sort of a smile and sort of pain.

‘He was very brave, wasn't he, Bee? He knew he was closest to the bomb and he didn't mind that as long as you were safe. And you are safe now and so he will know it was worth it, won't he?'

'But he's got no leg. And they won't be able to put it back, will they?'

'No, no, they won't, Bee. Not the part that's gone. Sometimes they can, but not this time. But you can get bionic legs now, really good ones. And Mycroft is lucky, isn't he, because he has the resources to have the best one there is in the whole world? He will be like Iron Man, won't he?'

Parthalan nodded. But looked as if he feared that there might be more bombs, ready to blow them up a second time.

'I suppose so.'

John knelt down.

'Listen, Bee. Mycroft wanted to do this. Those men were threatening to injure or kill you and he wouldn't allow that to happen. You need to be ok and happy, because that's what he's made this sacrifice for. If you're sad then he hasn't achieved everything he wanted to and you wouldn't want him to be sad, would you?'

'No.'

'Okay. Well done. You're being very brave and very good. We're going down now, back to the hotel and we'll get you cleaned up and then we'll all go to the hospital. By the time we get to the hotel, Papa should be awake. I'll tell him about Mycroft and then we will all set off. Does that sound OK? You can eat on the way, the hotel chef has made up a picnic.'

Parthalan made a wobbly kind of face. 

'I think I may not want anything to eat, if that's OK?'

....................

Sherlock was coming round. He seemed to be buried under a great weight of sheets and blankets, and was disorientated and distressed, as he had no idea where he was. The air was fresh and crisp and clean. It smelled like Scotland. But how on earth had he got there, and why?

From outside the window of his room, as he gradually surfaced from the oblivion that had been his lot for the past nineteen hours, he could hear the sound of swearing and then, more worryingly, the sound of the sharp retorts of gunfire.

He cautiously pulled back the bed covers and staggered from his bed, to peer out of the window.

Except for the sophisticated nature of the firearms and the modern dress, it could be a shootout at the OK Corral. Sherlock could see dozens of firearms police and what looked very like Mycroft's men and women, hunkered down in safe niches, trying to out-fire the four heavily armed men who did not intend to leave without the four million pounds they believed was somewhere in the hotel. From the paperwork on the table by the bed, he saw that he had been right; he really was in Scotland, then?

Sherlock couldn't see John anywhere, but as he began to panic, thinking John might have been hit, the man himself walked through the door, muddy and exhausted, but unharmed. And followed, even better, by an even dirtier and very upset looking but largely unhurt Parthalan.

'Papa!!' The little boy shrieked and threw himself on Sherlock, who looked at him blearily and hugged him so tight that Bee couldn't actually breathe. He didn't care. He had Papa. Papa would make everything alright again.

After a few minutes and before the small boy had a chance to blurt out anything about Mycroft, John wisely sent Bee off with the nurse to have a hot bath. Bee wasn't keen but he knew John wanted to talk to Papa alone; John had told him that before they got back. He went reluctantly, but he went.

Sherlock embraced John with a kind of death grip and kissed him all over his face and his hands and his throat and was starting to get passionate despite John's grimy countenance, when John stopped him.

....................

'Sherlock, we....ahh...need to talk.'

Sherlock heard the break in his voice.

'John? What's wrong? Everything's ok now, isn't it?'

'Bee's fine, yes. It's not him. It's Mycroft, Sherlock.'

He watched as the blood drained from Sherlock's face. In his relief and excitement at seeing Parthalan and John were safe, his brother had clearly slipped his mind. He visibly tried to process what exactly John was saying.

'He's not hurt is he? He's alive? Did he get Bee out? What's happened, John? Tell me, quickly!'

'He did get Bee out, yes and he did it single-handed. He's a madman. He basically took a suitcase booby-trapped with a bomb up to their hideout and blew up the guard holding a gun to Parthalan as well as half the front of the bothy… and himself.

Sherlock swallowed hard. He looked close to tears. His hand smacked to his head and gripped his curls.

'He's alive? Tell me he's alive, John?'

‘He was alive, yes, when the chopper winched him clear, Sherlock. I don't know beyond that. He's… he's lost his right leg, for sure, below the knee at least and I don't know what other injuries there might be. He tried to control the bleeding before I got there with baler twine as a tourniquet but it took me ages to reach him and he'd lost so much blood already.

‘I just don't know if he'll make it, if I'm really honest. Are you feeling well enough to travel to the hospital? It's about half an hour away?'

Sherlock, the blood draining from his face, struggled to his feet and began dragging on clothes.

'Get me to him, get me there, now.'

...............

They couldn't leave, as it turned out. Well, not until the last remaining kidnapper was shot and the four bodies lined up in a grisly row on the cobbled courtyard of the luxury self catering accommodation, that used to be the hotel stables. Guests looked out either horrified or thrilled by all the excitement and parents told their wide-eyed children it was filming, darlings, for a new action movie… 

Thankfully, a large unmarked truck was manoeuvred to park between the apartments and the four bloodsoaked corpses, before they were manhandled into the mortuary truck. Otherwise the children might have asked why the actors didn't get up and walk away at the end of that very long "take".

In the end, once they could finally set off, they didn't take Parthalan, leaving him with the nurse who he'd finally taken a shine to and agreeing that as a one off, something to help the little boy sleep without nightmares might be appropriate. She knew they had no idea how long they would be. John gave Bee the drug and she would monitor him. The little boy was exhausted and terrified and, added to his natural insecurity, it would be best for him to sleep until John and especially Sherlock, could be back with him.

............

It was a quick drive. At the hospital they were directed to the intensive care wing and were asked to wait, as Mycroft was apparently still in surgery. The doctor they spoke to confirmed he was alive, but that it was genuinely touch and go. He wasn't really stable enough to operate, but they had to go in and try to control the bleeding and the shock and to clean up the ragged mess that used to be his leg.

Sherlock looked like he didn't know what to do with himself. He turned to John.

'What do I do? What should I do? I can't believe he did this. I can't believe I knew nothing about what he was planning. Why did he do it?'

John looked at him. He too, found it extraordinary that someone would be so selfless. That they would, to put it bluntly, basically blow themselves up, in order to save their nephew. But he understood why Mycroft had done it. He sat them down and held Sherlock's shaking shoulders.

....................

'Sherlock, this has been a long time coming. Mycroft couldn't save you from Lang. He wasn't there, he was at uni and he didn't know what was going on. But he blamed himself. And he couldn't save Sherry, either. He only had time to save you from drowning and Sherrinford didn't make it. And Mycroft had blamed himself for that, too. It's no wonder he turned out such a stiff stick. He's been practically petrified into that shape by fear and guilt.

‘Do you really think he would allow anything similar to happen again to another generation of Holmes children, whatever the cost might be? He didn't tell me what he was planning to do before he went, but he did say at 221B that there was no price he would not pay, none, to get Bee back safe.

‘And that's what he did, isn't it? Because he loves Bee like his own and that's only doubled because Bee is yours. Because however much he loves Bee, he loves you more, Sherlock, more than anything in the world. 

When I say that, it's not a dig. The nature of his relationship with you has changed and it's what it should be now. Brothers who would die for one another. That's a thing I've never had in my own family and you should know how bloody vanishingly rare it is. So fucking cherish it and cherish him.

‘I know from my arm experience, how hard it is to almost lose a limb, and I know how losing one or more, affected men and women I served with. So he's going to need us, all of us, Sherlock, more than he will even guess at. And I know you will be there for him, but I intend to be too. Whether he wants me to or not.’

..................

They were interrupted by a doctor walking in. Frowning at a clipboard.

'Mr Holmes? Sherlock Holmes? I have you down here as next of kin for Mycroft Holmes?'

Sherlock felt sick. Next of kin… He nodded, his throat dry.

'Don't worry, it's fairly good news. Mr Holmes is out of surgery. It went well. They've stopped the bleeding, by and large, and cleaned up the wound. As you know, in an explosion at close range, all kinds of dirt and rubbish, to use the colloquial, gets into the wound. So I can't guarantee it will stay the case, but at the moment he does still have the right knee, with amputation below.'

Sherlock could see that would be better, but didn't really appreciate the significance and just nodded. It took John to tell him just how much better this would be.

'It makes all the difference, Sherlock. If he can keep that joint, then he essentially can move pretty normally with a bionic lower leg and foot. Without it, it's a lot more complex and rehab will be much more involved and take much longer. The other thing is, when you look down at yourself, below the knee isn't out of sight but it's not that prominent in the downward view. So psychologically it feels a lot more normal.

‘It's a big thing.'

Sherlock nodded. They could only hope then, that the injury stayed uninfected, and Mycroft could be 'bionic' solely below the knee.

.......................

'When can we see him?'

'He won't wake for a couple of hours yet and then you can pop in to see him. But just to let you know, he knows about his leg already. Not only because of applying the twine as a tourniquet, but because he regained consciousness shortly after admission for a short time and was very clear in his statements, once he had it confirmed that your son was safe, that he knew what had happened to the leg and that he wanted me to tell you, Sherlock, that he thought it was (and I quote) "an excellent outcome and merely collateral damage." He also said 'if we accept it in war zones on other country's civilians then the least I can do is take a bit of our own medicine.'

John shook his head.

'The man is clearly a cyborg. Unbelievable.'

Sherlock hadn't said anything but his eyes were damp. John put an arm round him.

'Are you ok, Sherlock? Love?'

'I'm fine', Sherlock whispered. 'I'm just happy for him. For Mycroft. He's finally managed to save someone. I hated him blaming himself for Sherry and I was too out of it and unwell to avoid blaming him for Jonathan Lang's activities, even though it wasn't his fault. Now he finally has something to be proud of. 

I'm sorry he's lost part of his leg. But now I understand why he did it, I know every time he looks at it, he will know that he saved Bee with it. I know Mycroft better than anyone on this earth and love him more than anyone else could and I know that's what he will think.'

It did sound odd and in a normal family, it would sound quite strange, but John knew the history of the Holmes family and the tragedies Mycroft carried on his shoulders. Always feeling he hadn't done enough, hadn't got his hands dirty enough, hadn't got there in time.

Not this time.

...................

 

Sherlock was right. When they were finally allowed in to see Mycroft, later that night, they found a weary and sleepy British Government looking… well… almost smug.

Sherlock walked over to him and took his hand, which was peppered with small shrapnel wounds. John walked around the other side of the bed and took the other.

Sherlock spoke first.

'Thankyou.'

Mycroft inclined his head slightly. His neck was stiff and painful, but at least he'd been give the all clear for spinal injuries and the uncomfortable neck brace had been removed. 

'You are, as always, Brother Mine, most welcome.'

'I would say you shouldn't have done it. But I'm glad you did. Though I'm sorry about the result.'

Mycroft smiled.

'The result is wildly more favourable than I had contemplated when I opened my rather hastily assembled suitcase bomb. As such, I am thrilled with the outcome.

‘Do not be sorry, Sherlock. I am not sorry. I did what needed to be done and it worked. They did not get the money, and they did not harm Parthalan physically, though I wish he had not had to go through such a terrifying experience at all.'

'A lot less terrifying for having been curtailed so quickly by your actions.'

'Granted. I was not going to let my family down this time, Sherlock.'

Sherlock shook his head vigorously.

'You have never, Mycroft, let your family down. Ever. Not with me. Even though I've pushed you to the brink. Not with Sherry. You did the right thing and Sherry would have done it the same if the roles were reversed.

‘Your whole life, Mycroft is not letting us down. You didn't need to do this to prove how much your family matters. We know.'

John looked on, open-mouthed at this… well… hugely sentimental display.

And then the two brothers embraced, lightly and carefully, due to Mycroft's condition.

....................

John spoke now, clearing his throat as the two brothers broke away from their embrace.

'Just, um. Want to say, Mycroft. Bee's our son, of course, legally and all that, but from today, just know that he's yours too. As far as I'm concerned. He's a manipulative little horror at times and you'll need to brush up on your knowledge of ballet and gymnastics technical terms, of course for you to be deemed acceptable company. He makes his own choices about where he likes to spend his time, but I want you to know that as far as I'm concerned, the door is open.'

Mycroft looked as if it was worth getting his leg blown off for this offer alone.

'Thankyou, John. I am tremendously grateful for your kind offer. I shall try not to intrude too much, but it would be lovely to share a little more time with Bee, as long as he doesn't mind a metal leg tapping along behind him.'

Mycroft looked at Sherlock.

‘If Bee visited me more regularly, he'd be in contact with Rachel more. Would that trouble you? The Moriarty/Mary thing?'

'No', Sherlock said, shaking his head firmly. ‘I couldn't face bringing the child up myself but I hold no ill will to her at all, and under your care and guidance I suspect she will end up smarter and sassier than all of us?'

Mycroft smiled.

...................

Then he tapped the sheet.

'I was thinking perhaps of a Holmes tartan patterned bionic leg, what do you think, brother mine?'

Sherlock leaned over the bed and whispered something in Mycroft's ear. It made the tips of Mycroft's ears turn pink. John suspected Sherlock was suggesting some rude uses for the artificial leg, some sex related uses. He was trying to make Mycroft laugh and it worked.

They left him soon after that, needing to get back to Parthalan who had been through a terrible experience. As they made their way along the corridor heading to leave the hospital, a slim dark figure appeared at the end of the corridor.

It was Prince Wasim.

Sherlock and John had no idea how he'd found out about Mycroft's injury so quickly, but he'd made it to Glasgow so fast he must have chartered a plane. He looked terrible. His normal impeccable turnout was crumpled and creased. His eyes had dark shadows ringing them, almost like two black eyes.

Wasim walked up to them and embraced them both, John slightly wooden but allowing the familiarity. Wasim held Sherlock by the shoulders. He had clearly been crying. Sherlock placed his hand gently on Wasim's arm as the Prince spoke.

'Sherrrloocckk. Tell me, how is Mycroft? I have a call from Anthea. She says it is bad. I hope you can give me better news?'

'He's probably going to be OK, Wasim, apart from his right leg. It's gone completely, below the knee. The knee is still in danger, if there's infection they can't control, but at the moment he's kept that. He did it saving Parthalan, you know. Quite unafraid. Blew up a suitcase bomb.

‘You should go to see him. He will be much better for seeing you, I think.'

Wasim looked as if he was about to crumple where he stood, but then gathered himself, nodded and looked both relieved and devastated at Sherlock's update. He was distracted now, muttering and his kisses goodbye were hurried as he swept off quickly towards Mycroft's room.

....................

John looked at Sherlock.

'You decided not to tell him about Tamara?'

Sherlock shrugged.

'It's for Mycroft to decide what to tell each of them about the other and how to integrate them into his life. No good can come of outsiders intervening.

‘Wasim will take whatever crumbs from his table that Mycroft can offer, since he himself isn't free to openly settle down with anyone anyway. Tamara will, I imagine try to prevent them sleeping together but may tolerate some of the "other" stuff. But I can't see Mycroft being able to comply, at least in the long term. He and Wasim have too much history and too close a bond. It will be messy, but it was always going to be like this if Mycroft decided to settle down with anyone; but it may be that some arrangement can be entered into that all can live with?'

John whistled.

'Do people actually do that, then, turn a blind eye to another person in their relationship. Because I know I wouldn't put up with it for a second.'

Implied warning shot across my bows there, thought Sherlock. Which is fine. Noted. As long as both of us follow it.

'They do more often than you'd think. Especially in certain social circles. And of course, the Holmes family's French background means it's relatively normal for a lover to be tolerated within a marriage, on either side. But, and this is crucial, the main partner must be pre-eminent in all things. The lover must be kept in their small niche. The partner must never be humiliated or have their nose rubbed in the fact of the other person's existence. That is completely unacceptable.

‘The problem will be, I fear, that Tamara is not French enough… Still, if Mycroft is discreet and Wasim does not know how not to be, it may work well enough.'

..................

Wasim walked softly and silently into Mycroft's room, Sherlock having informed the guards of his being an approved visitor. His lover was lying, appearing to be asleep, his hands clasped in front of him, his auburn hair slightly mussed by too many hours of tossing and turning on unfamiliar smelling pillows in a hospital room which like all hospital rooms, was kept warmer than was really comfortable. He looked younger like this and vulnerable. Wasim smiled at seeing him again, reassured by his steady breathing and calm expression.

Each moment they were together, alone, was rare and precious. Even in this kind of circumstance.

While Mycroft's eyes were closed, the prince had an opportunity to closely examine the man's injuries, without feeling as though he was staring. He took in first, of course, the leg. You couldn't not stare at that, it drew the eye. An absence of something that was so fundamental. It seemed madness that it was missing, like a drawing where the artist had been called away from the work, leaving the picture incomplete.

It seemed difficult to believe that he would get used to his lover looking like this, although he knew that, one day, he would.

There were other wounds, too, mainly from the shrapnel peppering Mycroft's body. He must have covered his face, because his arms were much more pockmarked than his face. That face, so dearly loved by Wasim. Long, aquiline, distinguished. A face that invoked abject fear in his foes, but devotion in his lovers. A talented Dom, but also a man who was unafraid to switch when he recognised that his lover needed to dominate and could play that part too. A man who could speak nine languages, play the piano to concert standard and stop all the clocks in Britain with the flick of a switch. A man who was lonely and, Wasim sensed, a man who was going to leave him.

This man that Wasim loved. The only person he had ever loved, and the only one he ever would.

His head bowed, Wasim sat quietly now, in the chair by the bed and waited for Mycroft to waken.

..............

It was about one o'clock in the morning when Wasim first heard a slight stir. He looked over to the bed and as he did so, Mycroft's eyes opened just a little and then he blinked in astonishment.

'Wasim? My Wasim! How?'

'Anthea rang me. I came. Shhh. All is well. Rest, you must rest.'

'Nonsense, I've done nothing but. I can't believe you're here!'

'Neither can I, if I tell the truth. I have never been to Scotland, you know?'

'I'm not sure the interior of Glasgow Royal Infirmary counts as seeing Scotland. And you haven't actually been North of the Thames if we're brutally honest, have you? a creature of the City. But I'm very glad you're here.'

Wasim leaned across and kissed Mycroft's brow, stroking his soft, thinning hair.

'I am very glad too. I heard that my warrior of words has been leaving his desk and indulging in some rather more physical warfare? In a worthy cause but not without high cost, it seems. So I had to come'

'In the best cause, Wasim. Saving Parthalan from a threatened Mafia-style torture and death. The very best cause there could be.'

'I understand. Of course you did it! There is no question...'

................

There was silence for a few minutes. Then both men started speaking at once.

'Wasim, I need to tell'… .'Mycroft, Anthea tells me you may want...'

They smiled at one another.

Wasim bowed his head.

'You first. Anthea said that you would like to speak with me. Since we rarely have such formal conversations, I will be so bold as to suggest that I know what you may be about to say. And to give you relief from worry, I will tell you before hand that whatever it is you plan to say, I accept it and will bear no ill thought, though it will grieve me deeply.'

Mycroft took Wasim's hand and ran his own hand over it, back and forth.

"We are not free, you and I, to be together, are we? We have never been free in that way, except maybe at Eton and that was always going to be a dream-like time. And, I have to say, aside from the tragedies in my family, our not being able to be together because of your family obligations, and cultural and religious hostility to our sexuality, has been the gravest sorrow that I have endured in my days on this earth.

‘I would that it were not so, with all my heart. Believe me.'

Wasim smiled. But there were tears in his eyes.

'I believe you and I know it to be true for you, as it is for me and has always been.'

Mycroft nodded and hung his head.

...............

'I have met someone, Wasim. She is beautiful and intelligent, perhaps even my equal intellectually, though her strengths are different to mine. Despite her resilience and strength, she enjoys submitting to me.

‘I may even ask her to marry me, Wasim, in time. And, I think, in time, she may even accept.

‘I do not want to grow old alone, Wasim, in my empty luxury and power. And one day, I will retire and will be lonely without companionship. I taunted my brother, you know, about his hankering after his beloved Doctor Watson. I regret that, now, I think. Perhaps he just recognised the corrosive effects of loneliness because of his isolation as a child and a young man, earlier than I was able to.'

Wasim was watching Mycroft speak, the Prince's dark eyes following his lips as they spoke.

'Of course, Tamara may no longer wish to continue our relationship, once she discovers the extent of my injuries. She has been in The Hague and returns tonight. Anthea has told her she is being brought to me but not why. But assuming she is prepared to stay with me, I need you to know two things, my own precious Wasim.

‘One. That if you were ever likely to have had the chance to be free to live freely with me, it would be you, Wasim, that I would be proposing to. Today's conversation is reflective of an acceptance of the political reality that it is not going to happen in our lifetimes. In fact, I would have taken you as my husband many many years ago. I curse the arrogant and myopic stupidity of this world that this cannot be.

‘Two. I will not give you up. Tamara will tolerate the BDSM aspects, but perhaps not the sexual ones and this will be a difficult thing to negotiate. I am not sure that I am able to promise her this. But I wanted to discuss it with you. Whatever happens regarding the sexual aspect, I will not break off contact and she will not ask me to. However, I will be giving up my spectacularly talented and delectable sub, Piers and I know that he would be delighted to meet with you, Wasim, if you would like that?’

.................

Wasim smiled at Mycroft. And shook his head.

‘I know that you love me, Mycroft and I have never been given cause to doubt that love. What you tell me now, casts no doubt on your love for me. But I do not think we can continue with a physical aspect to our relationship and I do not think it would be fair to this lady Tamara, were we to do so.

‘I know that I have always had you on loan, that one day you would marry and feel the constancy of the love and warmth that you have always longed for. Your life is a lonely one at the best of times, take that observation from an equally lonely man and it is beholden on your friends and those who are more than friends, to ensure it does not remain so. And the obstacles to our own union are so manifold and impossible to scale, that I have resigned myself to their defeating all of our best efforts to set them aside, though I do so with a heavy heart. I know also that our personalities and preferences in the sexual sphere would make such a union perhaps difficult for a long term constant relationship.

‘So I am renouncing you, Mycroft. Not my love, no one can ask me to erase that. I will never love another, the way that I have loved you, nor will I ever be able to stop loving you. And my anger and frustration that we were denied a chance to be together will burn on. But our life as lovers, that will be over. And what we will have to sustain us, all we will have, will be the glow of our memories, lighting the darkness of the regret that we both will bear.

‘And I am happy to meet the delicious Piers. Not as a consolation prize, though he sounds as if he will be able to offer much consolation.

‘I do have one request to make of you, however, Mycroft.

‘One more night with me. Will you? Can you? When you are well, of course. Tell me no if you must, but knowing it was the last would give me a chance to ensure I remember and store each moment, to be able to take it out and relive it in the years to come.’

Mycroft held Wasim's face in his hands. And realised he was crying.

He could not deny him.

'Of course. Of course. My own, my only love, of course.'

................

Wasim only left several hours later. The nurses commented on what a stunningly handsome man he was, so charming and gentle and so touching to see a man who'd clearly been crying. They thought Mycroft must be an important person to him. They hadn't a clue as to the depth of their understatement.


	15. Tamara

Mycroft spent the long night awake, contemplating the events which had happened so fast and which seemed only to be speeding up minute by minute, as he lay there helplessly waiting to see if he would lose any more of his leg.

He'd meant what he'd said about not regretting the injury. He really hadn't expected to get off so lightly, had thought he would be killed outright. So every day he woke from now on was a bonus. 

He knew, however, that reconciling himself might be harder once he went back to normal life, than it was lying prone in a hospital bed. You don't need your leg when all you can do is watch daytime TV and piss into a catheter bag, let's be honest. But when you want to run, or crouch, or piss, or fuck, then you really know things will never be quite the same as they were before. Go to bed, you undress, brush teeth. Not now. Now, undress, brush teeth… take off your leg...

His thoughts soon turned to Wasim, in the long dark hours of the night. He was planning to tell Tamara about the promise he'd made to the Prince. She might walk away, he expected her to at least for a while, but he owed Wasim so much, everything really. It was, in reality, not much to offer him, just a crumb from the table. If Tamara did allow it, he wouldn't sleep with her until it was over and done with, however.

He wondered if this, this intent to bind himself to one other person, was really the right thing for him to do? It was not without personal risk for her; any partner of his was automatically going to be a potential target for his adversaries and would have to accept permanent security coverage at all times. And he was over fifty, balding, greying, sagging. None of which Tamara seemed to be showing signs of. 

She could do better. She should do better, shouldn't she? Should he not instead settle for a life with Piers and Wasim as periodic companions, continuing the status quo? Was he capable of living with someone full-time, of loving them forever? 

Could Tamara accept that he was free only because Wasim was not? That last thought came like a heavy weight in his ribs, tightening his chest and causing him to gulp in a breath.

But then he thought of her lovely face, the wisdom in her expression and the empathy she displayed to everyone she met. Her obedience and supplication in the bedroom. Her assertive demeanour elsewhere. The sense of calm and "all will be well" that she seemed to spread through the room she occupied. Her willingness to fight for causes she believed in, and the threats she had endured as a result. 

He concluded that he didn't know if he was doing the right thing. Perhaps he never would? But that she was a worthy wife for a Holmes man and the real question that remained was perhaps more pertinent; would she want to stay with someone who was going to be unfaithful, a man missing part of a limb, no less. 

And would she, could she, think he was worthy of her?

More to the point, could he spend the night with Wasim and then walk away forever, to her?

...................

Tamara arrived just before lunch, shortly after Sherlock and John had left. The two men had looked worried as they departed, not so much about Mycroft now, but about Parthalan, who had combined bed-wetting with waking up screaming several times during the previous night. In the end, they had taken Bee into their own bed and Sherlock had woken to find the little boy wrapped around his leg, like a monkey clinging to a tree trunk, the sheets soaked. As a result of the upset, they did not stay long with Mycroft, which is how he came to be alone when Tamara arrived. Bee needed them more, despite the gravity of Mycroft's injury.

It was the first time Mycroft had seen Tamara anything other than a picture of calm serenity. She looked properly upset, as though she had been crying and had not had time to straighten her make-up again.

She sat down by the bed. There were flowers and his favourite stem ginger biscuits, the slightly chewy ones. She smelled of Aqua di Parma. He breathed it in.

'I'm sorry', Mycroft said. He meant it, too. And not just about his leg.

She shook her head at him and placed a finger on his lips to shush him. And smiled a wobbly smile. A smile of someone smiling who really probably should be crying.

'Can I see?'

'Do you want to? It's not compulsory.'

'If it's ok with you, I would, yes.'

Mycroft drew back the blanket and exposed the bandaged stump.

'That's the best outcome. If infection takes hold, more might have to go. But so far, so good on that front.'

She reached out and touched the stump delicately. As though she was blind, gently feeling a new shape, new sensations. Measuring and internalising. Her touch had an element of wonder about it. Mycroft felt better for her having touched it and not recoiled. Of course she had seen much, much worse in her work. Her first major conflict had been the genocide in Rwanda, unimaginably horrific. She was a strong woman.

She smiled at him.

'They've made a tidy-ish job of neatening you up. Will they give you a new leg?'

'Yes. It's not as tidy as it could be, but they know now that post-amputation pains are worse if you slice cleanly, so they've tried to preserve as much of what's there as possible. You can still get them, but not as badly. Phantom pains you can't do much about, of course.

‘The wound will need to heal quite a bit, first, so it'll be wheelchair for me for a while. But then, yes, they will give me a leg, several in fact. Some different types. For walking, for running, even for climbing, not that I do the last much. I'm lucky really, the technology is amazing...'

He was rambling. Mycroft never rambled. His smile was just too far this side of insincere. Brave, silly man, she thought. She came to his rescue and broke into his Douglas Bader-style stiff upper lip Englishman heroics.

......................

'I heard what you did, Mycroft. To rescue Parthalan. Anthea told me. She's so proud of you, you know, though I know you two don't talk about such sentimental matters, but she is completely overwhelmed with gratitude. Parthalan is her flesh and blood, she's his genetic mum and you just saved her son's life. I know she would already risk her life for you, but you just franked that offer big time.'

Mycroft looked at her with soft eyes and smiled.

'Anthea is glorious and irreplaceable. And I'm glad that she knows it. Really, she is the power behind the throne. And I fully expect that, in good time, when I choose to wind down my responsibilities, it will be Anthea who succeeds me. I certainly hope to ensure it.

'But what about you, Tamara? How does my injury affect you? Can there be an 'us', given I'm no longer wholly the man you started a relationship with? Because I would not blame you in the least for walking away now, or even later as the reality hits home. It wouldn't make me think less of you, it would just reflect the fact that my life has changed and so, fundamentally, has my body.'

....................

Tarmara smiled at him.

'I'm not going anywhere, Mister. We have a lot of raunchy sex to have, yet, you know.'

Mycroft grimaced slightly.

'That might have to wait a bit..? But I'm looking forward to it.

‘We need to talk, though, before you make any promises. I've finished my relationship with Piers, my sub. He won't be an issue at all. But we do need to talk about Wasim. I probably should have done this before. How much have you heard about him; I imagine Sherlock has mentioned him in the course of your sessions?'

Tamara nodded. She had been waiting for this conversation to arise, although she certainly had not expected to be having it in a hospital room, with a lover whose right lower leg was missing...

'He has talked about him, of course, mainly in relation to that period immediately before John was injured in the chopper crash, when you "introduced" the two of them. But I understood that you two were longstanding lovers, and that you go back, well, decades?'

Mycroft nodded.

‘We met at Eton, in fact, in the sixth form. He wasn't my first lover, there'd been a couple of girls before him, but he was my first boy and my first real love. It's been on-off for us ever since. Politics, religion and many other obstacles prevented us from being together permanently and openly. Plus we are both Doms, so it would be… difficult.

‘I need to be absolutely clear and honest with you. Wasim was here yesterday, Tamara. We talked about the future. And we came to some conclusions.

‘Whilst I know you would tolerate non-sexual activities, neither of us believe that to be a wise concession for us to try to accommodate. Wasim was especially insistent on that. So. With one condition, he has agreed to end our relationship permanently and completely, in order to allow you to be with me without worrying about possible competition.'

Tamara looked at him quizzically. 'One condition?' She had a feeling she wouldn't like what was coming.

Mycroft looked at her straight in the eye.

'He asks that he and I share one last night together.'

.....................

The words sat like an unexploded shell between them. Neither said anything. What on earth do you say, really?

Tamara looked away, not meeting his eyes. She knew that Mycroft was fully aware this wasn't a reasonable thing to ask. He also understood that this was not even a normal kind of request, by anyone's definition.

She had thought that dealing with Mycroft it was enough for her to deal with the fact that the vast majority of his relationships had been with men. That one man in particular had clearly been the love of his life up until this point. That was hard enough for a girl to take. Maybe it shouldn't be, but it just kind of was.

And now she and he were in a serious relationship and he was asking to go and fuck another man… or perhaps be fucked by him, she didn't even know the dynamics there? Who… oh… whatever... It didn't make much difference, did it, in the end? The point was, the fucking. Generally, that whole fucking thing. The whole "spending a night with someone else", doing "It" and probably going at It for most of the night. The potential sexual health implications aspect. The relationship issues. They hadn't been together long. Their connection was fragile. Serious, but fragile.

She tried to be her rational self. Could she see this as it was presented, the closing of a door on a much loved relationship, an acceptance from both sides that it was over? Or was the fact that it was over only because of social and political pressures, not because it had run its natural course, a bloody huge flashing red warning sign that she was always going to be second-best in Mycroft's life, never able to live up to the love that he lost?

Or worse, that he might also repeat this pattern, of sleeping with Wasim, either openly, like this time, or covertly. His work life was so secretive that it would be extremely easy for him to be able to cover his tracks… and Wasim could afford all the barriers he needed to prevent her disturbing whatever life he chose to lead. His life too, was already secret, muffled and a facade.

It was a lot to think about.

....................

Tamara told Mycroft that she did not want to give him an answer straight away, but would need a day or two, or perhaps more than that, to think about it.

Mycroft looked at her.

'I am grateful to you, you know, for even considering it.

'Most people would say I was a bloody fool to risk you walking away, which I know this request surely does. I can only say, in reassurance, that Wasim is a man of absolute integrity and honour, and when he says that after this single night there will be no further physical relationship between us whilst you and I are in a relationship, then you can take his word entirely on trust.

'Equally, I understand the fact of this event happening at all, may be anathema to you, and if that is the case, you must tell me once you have come to that conclusion. I will, of course, respect your decision completely.

Tamara smiled at him. It was a weak smile.

'You will respect my decision, Mycroft, I accept that. But will you accept it and then still go to his bed and break off your association with me? In other words, if I asked you to choose between not granting Wasim this final wish and me, would you be able to deny it to him?'

Mycroft did not answer. He held her gaze steadily for a few moments and then, wincing slightly, he looked away and pressed the call button for the nurse to adjust his pain management system settings.

Tamara nodded and frowned, understanding by his silence, that her choice was stark; acceptance of this event or losing Mycroft. That Mycroft was not prepared to deny Wasim a last token of his affection. No. Let's be honest, a last token of his love. The consolation of a single night.

Could she stay with someone who loved her, but clearly still also loved another and might always do so? She wondered if this is what it was like for Sherlock with John, Mary's shadow a constant presence, at least in Sherlock's emotionally fraught mind? If it was, she wasn't at all surprised now that Sherlock had reacted so violently to the idea of having a constant reminder of it in the shape of Rachel living with himself and John.

She now understood it much better than she had ever done at the time. And wished she were not in a position to do so.

 

..................

Mycroft was in hospital in Glasgow for several weeks, and Sherlock and John, plus the children (Ishbel and Kirsty had travelled up several days after Mycroft was hurt) based themselves at a local hotel for the week that they stayed.

Tamara was there too, for a while, although she had to fly to the U.S. mid-week for work. Sherlock and John sensed there was some tension between the couple, though it wasn't entirely clear why. Sherlock thought it was to do with Wasim, John thought perhaps she was taking some time to coming to terms with Mycroft's injury.

'Trust me, John. It's not about the leg. It's to do with sex. She's not comfortable with whatever set-up he's suggesting. Dirty old goat might be trying to have his cake and eat it, is my guess?’

'Guess, not deduction?'

Sherlock hummed a little.

'Educated guess, John.'

..............

It was the day before they left that John stayed behind at the hotel to play with the children and Sherlock went alone to the hospital.

He found Mycroft in a sombre mood. Not in respect of his leg, that was looking good for staying its current dimensions and he was now mobile in a powered chair, but in respect of his future.

But Mycroft knew he'd given Wasim his word. And he was going to keep it.

...............

He couldn't remember ever having confided in Sherlock about matters of the heart, but today his brother had barely removed his long black coat and sat down, before Mycroft was telling him the bare bones of the dilemma. When he'd finished, Sherlock looked at him shrewdly and with some amusement.

'For a man who told me caring was not an advantage, you seem to be doing an awful lot of caring these days. You should be careful. Dementia can kick in earlier than you think.'

'Drop the sniping, Sherlock. This matters. Very much. And I want to know if you think I'm doing the right thing?'

Sherlock sighed and fiddled with the coffee cup in his hand. The coffee was rubbish. Expected, but disappointing all the same. John would find him better coffee. John was good at that. 

'Am I really the right person to be asking, Mycroft? Aside from John, I've had no free and consensual sexual relationships in my entire life as you well know. I can tell you what I think, but it's scarcely an informed opinion.

Mycroft looked at his newspaper, folded in his lap. Six down was almost certainly "phantasm". He inked it in and murmured 'I should still like to hear your thoughts, dear brother?'

..................

Sherlock sighed dramatically and clumped himself around a little in the chair.

‘There isn't a right and wrong decision here, is there Mycroft? The safe, middle class, Anglo-Saxon option, the John Watson solution, would be to tell Wasim it's off and to tell Tamara that you want to be her Mister Snuggles Love Monkey or whatever you like to be called, forever.

‘And that would be easy to do, if you loved Tamara, but didn’t love Wasim. But that's not how it is, is it? You love Wasim, but you can't have him, not for good. And you know he loves you. It shines out of him like a fucking Jubilee fire beacon. And this seems to you like such a little thing to give him.

‘I think you will do it. I don't know if Tamara will accept it. I don't even know if you will be able to accept the Wasim-era being over when it is done? If I were you, I would not be promising that anything was over, until this night was done, because you don't know how you will feel. But you are a more honourable man than me, so you are being open and making promises, believing that you have the strength to give up Wasim.

‘You know Wasim has that strength and those principles. But you don't know if you do. Not really, do you? So I think if you spend the night with him, you should not make further promises or progress things with Tamara until it is over and until you have reflected on what it meant. Because you may find that in the morning, you are not able to get up from that bed and leave that man behind.’

..................

Mycroft had been listening intently to Sherlock's words. There was a silence once the words were spoken.

Mycroft sighed.

'You are right. I need to commit the act and then re-open my eyes to see what the world has transformed to as a result. Not ask anything of Tamara until the night with Wasim is fact and history.

'I will tell you of the outcome, once the deed is done.'

He rose, and made to leave, pondering the top of his umbrella handle. Then he turned back to his brother, leaning back with his eyes closed. 

'Thank you, Sherlock. For listening, and not ridiculing me more than a given token. I know it must be tempting, when you see me at such a disadvantage in sentimental matters.'

Sherlock examined his fingernails studiously. 

'Mind you don't go through the third step on the way out. It's riddled with woodworm and may not take the weight....' 

Mycroft made as if to tear off a strip from his brother, and then stopped. This was good. This was normal. The excessive emotion and fondness was there, but back under wraps, swaddled in sarcasm and jibes. And maybe it was best that way. Maybe it was the way they liked it to be, a certainty to cling to in an uncertain world. 

He nodded his head, and turned on his heel, and with a cry of 'Morning Mrs Hudson!', he trotted down the stairs, out of the door, and away from 221B.


	16. The Leavetaking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In end notes to avoid spoilers and for those not wishing to partake in BDSM description

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If hardcore BDSM sexytimes are very much not your thing or triggering, I will summarise the main chapter events at the end of the chapter in the notes, so that you can skip this chapter
> 
> For everyone else, BDSM smut awaits!

"......But I must bless, I must praise  
That you, my swan, who have  
All gifts to the swan  
Impulsive Nature gave,  
That majesty and pride,  
Last night should add  
Your voluntary love."

W.H. Auden, extract from V of Twelve Songs

 

\--------------------

It was almost exactly one month later.

Mycroft was back at home in Eaton Square and getting used to the temporary limb he'd been fitted for. The all-singing all-dancing bespoke number, that would be his permanent lower leg replacement would take some time to arrive, since it was being custom-made in the US, using casts of his remaining undamaged leg as a model.

He'd started to get used to it, the leg and the only time when he did struggle with his new body image, came at night, when he came to remove it and was forced to confront the reality of his altered and damaged figure, especially when naked. He felt horribly self-conscious then and it was worse because he hadn't expected to. Had expected the gratitude for surviving to carry him through. Maybe it doesn't work like that… He had the mirrors moved. He avoided being naked for any length of time. He was struggling, just in those long dark hours when he was alone and had too much time to think. He worked long into the night and started work early. He fell asleep in his chair, woken by the housekeeper coming in to start work at seven in the morning. His work didn't suffer, but he knew that his Scotch consumption was creeping up. Starting earlier in the evening, just a few minutes a night. He needed to break the cycle.

His previous suave image and his Dom persona seemed like another world, a lifetime away. He felt uncharacteristically vulnerable and needing. He realised he wanted someone strong to look after him, to take care of him. It was an unfamiliar, and very uncomfortable feeling for him. He was used to being master of his mood, of his self-image, of his physical needs and those of others too. This was bigger than him, this thing, this time and he wasn't in control.

Now, he wanted someone else to lead. And in this time of need, there was really only one person he could call.

It was time to call Wasim.

He put it off for several more days, working late into the night and then telling himself if it was too late to call. But finally, on Friday night, with several crises resolved and only routine matters remaining on his desk, he stood up just after seven and told Anthea he was heading home for the weekend. He had his usual case of papers to plough through; ministers got scarcely half the number he did in their battered red boxes. She smiled, and wished him goodnight. She would be staying at her desk for some hours yet, before being relieved by Mycroft's number three, Della Bishop.

As he left, she waited for the cameras to show he had left the building. She called Della.

'I think it's tonight. No, that's fine, I've got it covered. I'll get my head down first. You hold the fort here and I'll do the necessary his end.'

..............

Back at Eaton Square, Mycroft poured himself a triple Scotch, watching as the light danced on the crystal glass. Dutch courage. He downed a good measure of it and setting the glass down, he picked up the phone.

The housekeeper answered. Mycroft asked for Prince Wasim. He hoped he was there. He was in luck.

The prince's voice, when he came to the phone, was like honey dripping out of the telephone lines, soothing Mycroft's troubled mind. Yes, he was busy tonight. No, he would cancel all the engagements. Yes. Mycroft should come to him now.

Behind the honey, Mycroft could detect the gravity in Wasim's voice. Knowing both, that this was the last time. The last night.

...........

Pall Mall was brightly lit and glittering, crowded with people in ill-fitting and garish coats and jabbing umbrellas which they seemed unable to manage. Mycroft's black limousine glided to a halt and he emerged, smoothed down his clothing and advanced back into that familiar lobby that smelt of beeswax, money and anticipation, smiling at the concierge, into the tiny ancient brass and iron lift with the pull-across cage door, ascending jerkily up. When the lift stopped, the doors opened, and he was standing there, on the Prince's own floor. Wasim came across the hallway, cupped his face and just gazed at him. 

'You came.'

Mycroft inclined his head. He felt like he should do more. Should perform obeisance to this man.

'Of course I came. I wish I could come to you always.'

'And Tamara?'

'She… we…. are going to see how things stand, after this. She's not sure if it's something she can forgive. And she's not sure, whether after tonight, we two will be able to finish with each other.'

Wasim looked away.

'It must be finished, if you want to be with this woman, if you intend to marry this woman. I love you too much to risk ruining a marriage that you want to succeed. So she should be reassured. There will be nothing for us, nothing between us, after tonight.'

Even as he said it, the tears came to Wasim's eyes. Both looked away.

................

They moved into the living room, where the lights were dim and reflected off the gold and gilt furnishings and decorations. They ate some kind of tagine, studded with dates and apricots all over like jewels, fragrant and delicious. And then they ate pastries, soaked in honey and covered in small nibs of nuts. And they drank a superb dessert wine, which tasted like crepes Suzette, but with the tang of pink grapefruit.

Mycroft felt slightly drunk. Drunk on the wine and the warmth and the richness of the decor, but mostly drunk on Wasim's beauty and his voice. The way his dark eyes flashed with warmth and humour, but then turned on Mycroft and the same eyes seemed to suddenly turn liquid with depths that Mycroft could only gaze at with hunger and longing.

Wasim rose, and took him by the hand. Mycroft put down his empty glass. Wasim led him into his ornate and baroque bedroom. Just as he had once done with Sherlock, he locked the door and gave Mycroft the key. And just as he had also once done with Sherlock, he murmured the words 'Now, we begin.'...

............

When Wasim asked him what scene he wanted to play, Mycroft had no hesitation.

'I want you to take me apart. To break me into a thousand little pieces. And then I need you to make me whole again.'

Wasim nodded, his eyes flashing. He was to be the Dom and Mycroft switch. He pointed to Mycroft's leg.

'How will you manage with your leg?'

Mycroft shrugged.

While I'm out of the bed, it's best on, for my balance and self image. Once in bed, I hate it being on, but I also hate my body when it's off. So you choose. I - I haven't coped well with it. At night. You know. The daytime is fine. But, undressing. Not, not so good.'

Wasim inwardly winced. Mycroft never admitted to any mental weakness. Not ever. He hadn't realised until now that Mycroft's casual acceptance of the amputation in daylight was not matched by his experience in the night, at least not at this early stage after the injury. But he simply nodded and smiled.

'We will leave it on then, I think and then at the right moment, I shall take it off for you. You need only act as if it is not there, in so far as that is possible.'

The two men had long since learned about each other's limits, both hard and soft, not that there were many and their safewords were ingrained. Wasim slowly undressed Mycroft, his touch both arousing and sad. When it came to removing his trousers, Mycroft tensed as the missing leg was revealed, the basic temporary artificial replacement looking cheap and hard; the shade a crude attempt at the right colour for flesh, based on a colour chart that certainly hadn't been based on anyone approaching Mycroft's pale skin tone.

Mycroft didn't want to look up at Wasim's face, but he could tell the other man was quietly waiting for him to do so. And so, at length, he did. And Wasim guided him back to the bed and he laid him down there gently, almost reverently and kissed his way up each of Mycroft's legs in turn, whole and maimed alike, and when Mycroft looked again, Wasim's cock, which had been fairly soft, was considerably harder than it had been before this exchange.

'He doesn't mind', Mycroft thought with wonder. He knew his own penis was soft and was struggling to feel aroused or arousing. 'I don't repel him. Even like this. Even though I absolutely repel myself.'

And Wasim stopped kissing him then, because Mycroft was crying. He hadn't shed a single tear since the explosion, not one, but now there was no stopping him.

Wasim stripped down to his pants, to match Mycroft and gently removed the prosthetic leg. Then, with no further thought of sexual acts for now, he spooned himself around Mycroft's body, which was still trembling and shaking, and at length they slept for an hour or two.

...............

Waking about eleven at night, Mycroft found Wasim entwined in his arms, the prince's legs curved around the remaining part of his amputated leg. That felt very comforting. Mycroft was, however, embarrassed about his tears and guilty that they were wasting some of the night's precious hours in him having an emotional crisis. He tried to explain that.

Wasim sat behind him, Mycroft leaning back against his chest. He stroked him and petted him, then told him that if neither of them came, if neither of them penetrated the other, it would still have been their last night. Still hours that they spent together, alone, naked and honest and free to exchange words.

Mycroft disagreed. He was desperate to feel wanted and desired, desperate to free himself from the tyranny of constantly being able to think only about his leg when faced with a romantic or sexual scenario.

...............

Wasim considered for a few minutes and decided that Mycroft really did need the discipline of a scene to divert his attention from his flawed self-image.

He could not ask the man to kneel, having removed the prosthesis, so he asked him to remove his pants, removing his own also. Then he told Mycroft to wait and he fetched a blindfold, earplugs paddle and bullwhip, as well as some lengths of fine rope from the chest at the end of the bed.

Soon, Mycroft was lying on his front, unable to see or hear, with his arms tied with such skilful knots that he was both relatively comfortable in the position that he was in, but also completely spread out before Wasim to do with as he chose.

He had not been gagged. Wasim did not want Mycroft to have to make any physical movement to indicate invocation of a safeword, because of his inherent stability issues with his leg. Trussed up as he was, trying to make a physical signal might just make him topple over and look like that was all that was happening. So, no diminution of his ability to communicate.

..............

Wasim was crouching over Mycroft. He could have been an acrobat, his movements were so agile and swift. He ran a long slim finger down Mycroft's neck, and leaned in to kiss gently all the way down his neck and shoulder.

Then he claimed Mycroft's mouth suddenly, roughly and held him by the hair. Not pulling hard, but holding hard. He ravaged his lips and bit hard, drawing blood. Mycroft groaned. The leg was receding already from the forefront of his mind and he was concentrating now only on the sensations he could blindly feel. Pain, so far, but also pleasure.

Wasim pulled away suddenly. Mycroft wondered what was happening. Then he felt a slithering sensation. It tickled, running over the back of his thighs and his sole remaining calf. He shivered. The bullwhip.

Wasim crouched down by his side, and momentarily removed the earplugs.

'How hard and how long?'

Mycroft showed no hesitation.

'As hard as you can bear and until I red or orange out of it.'

Wasim frowned.

'Or unless you appear to me like you should have done.'

Mycroft shrugged.

'If you like. But I'd rather you trusted me.'

'I do. Right.'

The whipping did not start hard, but did hold promise and intent from the start. Although Mycroft could not hear the full cracking of the whip, he could heard it muffled, and each time the sound made his whole body tense, waiting for the stinging blow to land, alternately on his buttocks and the back of his thighs.

The minutes passed. The blows grew progressively harder. As did Mycroft's prick, now definitely hard and wanting, trapped below his body, and stimulated every time the whip fell and Mycroft's whole body jerked violently in response.

Twenty blows. Wasim had not asked him to count out loud, but Mycroft counted under his breath, his breath that was becoming light and gasping. He could hear Wasim's breathing grow heaving and deep. Both parties were being rewarded richly.

Twenty five strikes.

Thirty.

At thirty two strokes, the pain of the repeated lacerations reached a tipping point, and tears started to flow from Mycroft's eyes, soaking into the blindfold.

At thirty five, he was no longer counting audibly, but groaning as the lash fell.

At forty three strokes, he whispered 'Orange' and the bullwhip fell immediately from Wasim's hand.

He could tell his backside and legs were a mess. As he shifted on the sheets, he could feel not just stickiness of weeping abrasion, but trickles of running blood. He was aware of them, but not in a specific way. All he could focus on was the pain, its sharpness and cleanness, a feeling like he was in a complete immersion tank, floating, dark, silent. Just him and his pain, his friend.

The pain was much worse once Wasim instructed him to turn over, to lie on his back. But he did so, gasping, but without hesitation. He wanted this. This man, this pain, this release.

................

He felt kisses on his chest. His nipples were being suckled and grazed, brought to sharp peaks. Then he felt a sharp excruciating sensation. Clamps. First the left nipple, then the right. Now his brain did not know which pain to focus on. The fuzziness grew denser. He was starting to float. Only now he realised how long he had been knotted up and how much he needed this.

The kisses continued down his chest, his stomach and still further down. His stomach muscles clenched with the wonderful sharp torture of it. Not able to see, not able to hear, just able to feel the pain - there - and there, and the pleasure sensation of - this. The tongue edging lower, skimming through the neatly trimmed thatch of his pubic hair and alighting onto his cock, hard, leaking and desperately straining. The suckling tongue mouthing the head, licking a stripe right up the underside. Taking his balls into their mouth, each in turn, and rolling them playfully, sweetly. There was such violence and such delicacy in turn. His brain was short-circuiting.

Then the tongue was leaving his cock, which twitched in disappointment at its loss. Mycroft could do nothing to console it, with his hands tied together above his head and to the ring bolted firmly into the wall behind the bed. But he felt the tongue moving south. His legs were already pulled apart by the ropes that secured his legs above the knee to the bed posts. It would have been his feet of course, but he no longer had two of those...

As Wasim's tongue laved hungrily over his perineum and then moved further, Mycroft, now in his white space, was vaguely aware that the tongue was entering into him now. Pressing and searching, seeking and demanding. It was exquisite and Mycroft gasped, close now to the very edge.

...................

The tongue was gone, as suddenly as the whip had stopped.

Mycroft tried to catch his stuttering breaths. Then felt an unfamiliar sensation. Fingers circling his hole, that wasn't unfamiliar, but then the fingers gone and a tapered shaped object was being held against his hole, nudging, probing and finally pushed in… so… so… in one long smooth movement. For a few seconds it felt like just a plug, not a very large one. Mycroft wondered at the point of it. Then, he frowned in confusion, as the heat and the burn began.

He could see nothing, but he could smell it. Strong and sweet. Ah. Ginger. Wasim had stuffed a large carved and shaped piece of fresh ginger root up his anus. And now, the milky sap was slowly burning him from the inside out.

He noticed another note to the smell. And the burn was now even too strong for ginger alone, he realised. He wasn't sure if it was chilli, or some kind of deep heat liniment. Either way, as it kicked in, it was too much and he began writhing, unconscious of his back lacerations that he was opening up again. His head banged against the pillows repeatedly. It was excruciating. Blood smeared against the sheets in arcs as he bucked and convulsed against the extra pain.

He was held down. And then, as suddenly as it came, it was gone. The burn remained but the object was teased out and then removed entirely.

He panted, his head twisting this way and that, trying to untangle the messages his brain was frying trying to decipher. Pain or pleasure? Agony or ecstasy? He moaned a continuous, plaintive sound. Through the earplugs it sounded like an animal in pain. And heard a soft chuckle through the muffling of the earplugs. It must have been a belly laugh.

'Please.'

He didn't think he had spoken but it was his voice.

He spoke again.

'Please. Please. I need you.'

He sensed movement from the rushing of air around his taut oversensitive body. A face close to his. Breath on his face.

'What do you need from me, my sweet boy?'

I… .not more burn. You. Ploughing me. Fucking me. So full I can't move. Now. Please, God, please… I need more of everything...' 

............

A pillow was being shoved under his hips now. His hips were lifted higher. At the same instant, he felt two sensations.

He felt the hardness of the blunt wide head of a penis bumping against his perineum and anus. He felt slickness, smelt male desire and want fill the air. Wasim's cologne filled his nostrils. He tried not to hyperventilate and to remember to breathe.

At the same second, he felt the sharp sweetness of a dagger blade play across his chest. Wiping across, blade flat. He gasped. No sound. A silent question. Would he safeword? He knew if he didn't, this wasn't just for show.

There was a pause. Waiting to see what he would do. He was dizzy and drowsy, but knew he was not up for invoking limits tonight. He remained silent. He smiled behind his blindfold. Wasim could see the smile, he knew. He wondered if it looked like Sherlock had, in Serbia, smiling after being tortured for days, knowing that relief was at hand. He felt a hand brush his damp, flushed cheek.

He bit out the words.

'Do it. Fuck me. Cut me.' He could barely get the words out for the torture of anticipation.

His excitement level was boiling over now. Wasim placed the dagger to Mycroft's left breast and his cock at Mycroft's entrance. Then, in one merciless drive, he sank himself into Mycroft at the same moment as the dagger drew a line across Mycroft's flesh from one nipple to the other. There was a snagging sensation in the centre of his chest, as the incision stuttered up, down, up, down, maybe caught on his chest hair, Mycroft didn't know, only half aware. The cut was deep, too deep really and deep enough for the blood to flow freely.

Mycroft felt the sting and smelt the blood at the moment he felt the brutal invasion. The ginger hadn't been a substitute for slow and careful preparation with two or three fingers and it fucking hurt. Wasim's penis at rest was an average one, proportion wise, but his erect cock was big, especially its girth. Mycroft groaned with the stretch and the raw burn of it. But this was what he had come for. He had asked to be taken apart, and he was now surely in smaller sharper shards than he'd ever been before. His leg, the trauma, was all forgotten. It was all about the intense pain and the sheer fullness of Wasim inside him, fully inside his burning stinging body, that body that was sweat slicked and bleeding profusely, his cock heavy and awash with pre-come.

.................

Wasim was slamming into him. Mycroft couldn't remember when he'd last taken a breath. Each time he remembered, his breath was fucked out of him again. Then there was that smell of ginger again and a sliver of something tormenting and burning was rubbed up and down his penis. More ginger root. He couldn't move. He couldn't speak. He could feel only the pain. Experience only this.

When the hand came around his neck and pressed hard, he was grateful. He felt as if the world was far away and as it began to recede, the feeling of intense, burning pleasure intensified. He felt the fullness hammering him inside, torturing his prostate, splitting him in two, shattering him. Then the pace altered and become more stuttering. Balls drawing back, Wasim close to orgasm but trying desperately to delay it. Mycroft was far away now and idly thought if this was it, if the scene went wrong, if he died here that he'd be OK with that. There were worse ways to go. Better than a cold Scottish hillside and spies were supposed to be kinky sex maniacs. And he might go. He was drifting now.

Mycroft was losing consciousness. He saw bright lights, heard muffled groaning from a long way away. Then, finally, his climax raced up from behind him, more powerful than any he had ever experienced; it seized his whole body and shook him like a rag doll.  
He shuddered uncontrollably, and came, semen striping all over his stomach and Wasim's smooth chest.

At the sight of it, Wasim still did not let go of his windpipe with his right hand but only pressed harder and grabbed hard hold of Mycroft's hips with his free one. He rammed into him like an animal claiming its mate, screaming as he emptied his load into Mycroft, and that was the last thing Mycroft saw before he went under. 

He was almost unconscious as Wasim finished his final pulses of orgasm, and out cold by the time Wasim withdrew his softening cock and slumped, spent and exhausted, over Mycroft's body.

..............

The night drew on.

When Mycroft woke properly, rather than brief confused episodes, it was four a.m., dark and quiet and he was alone in the huge bed. He was scrubbed clean and his multitude of wounds had all been carefully treated. He suspected that Wasim had done most, but not all of it, not the changing of the sheets, anyway. He couldn't bring himself to care, so exhausted and at peace was he.

He was wearing brushed flannel pyjamas, as soft as lambswool, the leg of one turned back on itself and stitched up out of the way at knee height, matching his remaining leg length, and there was a glass of hot blackcurrant syrup sitting by the bed, on the small gilt table. A blood pressure sleeve, heart monitor and bright pen torch sat next to the drink.

It hurt to move. It hurt to breathe, quite a bit. His arse burned like absolute fuck. His back was more dressing than flesh, and every move drew a pull and a wet feeling as the bleeding started up again. There were bruises and bites everywhere, and, he noticed idly, even a bite on his cock.

He still only had 1.5 legs out of a possible 2.

And he felt amazing.

..................

Wasim was only a shadow, but Mycroft realised he was there, sitting quite still by the window, smoking a small, slim cigarillo. There was a bright moon; Mycroft could see his face in profile and the curl of smoke in the moonlight, before Wasim had seen he had awoken. He looked weary and sated, but more than that, his expression was filled with a depth of profound sadness, that was almost completely unbearable to observe.

Mycroft shifted slightly in the bed, in order to let Wasim know he had resurfaced. Almost immediately the man was back by his side, taking Mycroft's head into his lap and stroking his hair. A hand entwined into his own, fingers meshed together.

'You have awoken, love.'

Mycroft frowned at him, seeing the dark circles under his eyes.

'Did you not sleep, Wasim?'

Shake of the head. And a smile.

'I preferred to watch you. First to clean you up and tend to you, make sure you regained consciousness and then to watch you sleeping. You smiled a lot, in your sleep.'

Mycroft looked surprised.

'No one's ever said that to me before.'

'Maybe no one's made you happy enough, before, for you to smile like that, My?'

'Maybe that's it...'

Mycroft looked at Wasim. And squeezed his hand.

'I'm sorry.'

'Why?'

'About everything. About this, being so intense, it means I probably can't manage another round tonight, with my back the way it is. It was selfish.'

Wasim chuckled.

'If you don't think I'd rather have the memory of one session like that, to twenty vanilla peg A into slot B fucks, then Mycroft Holmes, you do not know me as well as I thought you did.'

Mycroft smiled.

'A fair point. It was amazing. I've never felt quite that extreme. Although I suspect a couple of the cuts will scar. I may have some explaining to do.'

'Ah yes', murmured Wasim. 'To the lovely Tamara.'

'Indeed. We haven't really talked since I told her about the plan for this night.'

.....................

Wasim sat back. Took a last drag of his slim cigar and stubbed it out. Blew out the smoke.

'But your intention is still to propose to her?'

Mycroft looked like a man who should have been happy. He took a deep breath.

'I believe it is. And yet it is breaking my heart.'

Wasim looked over at him. Both of their hearts were breaking, he knew. Shattering.

'It is my circumstances that keep us apart, not you. If it were not for my situation, we would be together. You should not blame yourself, in that case, for not wishing to be alone forever.'

Mycroft shook his head.

'But what about you, Wasim? You must be lonely too. Thousands of miles from home, exiled, forced to keep your relationships low-profile. How will you find that fulfilment? Diversion is easy, I'm sure Piers and his ilk will provide plenty of that, but what then?'

Wasim looked at the floor and began picking at the hand-stitched monogram embroidery on the pillowcases. When he spoke, his words were slow and measured. It was a neutral deliberate pattern of speech which Sherlock used. Flat, emotionless and used when feelings needed to be suppressed utterly, to speak something hateful or painful.

'I think that may resolve itself, from my family's perspective, at least. My elder brother, the heir, has not produced children. It appears to be him, not his wife's issue, so it is not a case of simply finding a new wife. I am being pressured, quite hard now, to return home.'

Mycroft frowned.

'How will that help?'

Wasim looked at him as one might a small child.

'Because roughly a week after I return home, Mycroft, I will be married to a distant cousin who possesses all the qualities that are deemed desirable in the bride of a prince.

‘She is young, very beautiful, with no genetic flaws or suspect characteristics. I will then be expected to produce a crop of children for the dynasty, preferably mainly boys and in return, my history as a homosexual playboy in the decadent West will be brushed under the carpet. I will be expected to be devout, attend numerous functions and wear traditional dress for much of the time.

‘However, in time, if I do all this but also choose to spend a proportion of my time with various room boys and other men, this will be ignored by my wife and my family, providing they are vetted first.

‘In short, Mycroft, I will be a prisoner, providing sexual services to my wife and siring suitable heirs.'

.....................

Mycroft felt sick. Not only at what Wasim was saying, but at how when his lover said it, it felt so terribly unjust and yet there were such obvious parallels with what he himself had blackmailed Sherlock into doing, in order that Parthalan would be born. He had to try several times to speak. Not only because of the partial throttling of the night's games, but because he realised only now how cruel and selfish he had been to his younger brother.

'Will you go back? I would miss you terribly.'

Only now did Wasim look slightly reproachful.

'Mycroft. Do not be a cruel man. Even if I stay, I cannot see you. Even if I stay, we must not meet. You know this. I could not live, seeing you with another. Married. Settled.'

He looked away. His voice came out choked.

'So yes, I will go. I have little choice, in reality. If I do not go, my family is likely to withdraw the financial support that allows me to live here. And could make it very difficult for me in a number of ways. Ultimately, too, if they want me back, they would find it very easy to have me spirited out of the country. I have little power. Despite my title, I am less free than the poorest man that serves me.'

He looked defeated, older suddenly. A butterfly that has drunk nectar and flitted in the sunshine all summer, and when the storms of autumn arrive, is to be found with tattered and torn wings, seeking shelter in a barn, settling on a window sill and slowly desiccating there until there is only dull brown dust remaining and no one would know of the beauty there had once been in those wings.

And Mycroft drew Wasim into his arms and held him, as the grey dawn pricked the darkness with a weak glow. They wept, and then, at last, they fell into an exhausted sleep.

.................

Leaving was the worst part.

They did not say goodbye properly, for neither could speak. It was, Mycroft thought, not unlike Sherlock and John at the airfield before Sherlock boarded the plane for his aborted exile and expected death. Stilted, formal, words unsaid, an unbearable sorrow.

Instead, Mycroft distractedly collected his effects, his wallet, his phone, his diary; Wasim, in an intimate gesture which no one else had been allowed to come close to doing, fitted Mycroft's artificial lower leg back in place, securing it carefully.

They stood. Mycroft reached out and touched Wasim's face. And a hand came and touched his own. Then he turned, cleared his throat and walked away without looking back, into the ancient lift, down to the lobby and out into Pall Mall. His face was set, and terrible.

He thought he was maintaining his mask, but in the event, he only got as far as the Tintern Club on Piccadilly. Slumped against the door, he was going to ring the bell and privately come to pieces in the gents loos, but he didn't need to.

As he buried his head in his hands, crouching on the floor, a long black car pulled up alongside him and Anthea stepped out. She gently took his hand, guided him to his feet and then into her arms. She felt like melted chocolate and he embraced her, tears wetting her pashmina. Somehow, a minute or two later, he was back in the car, and Anthea was next to him.

...............

He looked at her, now that the tears were abating.

'Did you know? That he would go back? Would he have gone if I'd been free?'

Anthea smiled at him kindly.

'If you were free, he would undoubtedly defy them, as hard and as long as possible. Now you are no longer free, he knows there is no reason not to return.'

'No reason except the fact that he is homosexual and has no wish to father children?'

Anthea just looked at him, staring at him.

Mycroft knew what she was silently saying. "You could be describing Sherlock. It didn't stop you doing exactly the same to your brother, did it?"

Mycroft suddenly wondered if all this was an ironic revenge of the fates. Treating his brother like a puppet to produce a child and in return, his own lover taken to do exactly the same. All for the good of the family, the dynasty, the succession.

His face contorted in remorse and misery. He stared out of the window. His life ahead seemed very long and very uncertain. And at the heart of him, there was a pain that he wasn't sure would ever be healed. A memory of dark eyes, of curling lashes. Of a slim and beautiful body. Of a kind man, a selfless man. A prisoner, of his family and his class. His Wasim.

His no longer.

............................

It was only later that night, as the wounds started to heal, that he realised that as well as the cut line across, at the centre of his chest was the single letter "W".

He was branded and he was glad of it.

 

\--------------------------

"For in every ill-turn of fortune, the most unhappy sort of misfortune is to have been happy."  
BOETHIUS c.480-524

"And thoughts of you  
I do remember  
Were green leaves  
In a darkened chamber"

RUPERT BROOKE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:
> 
> Zahia, the name of Wasim's young wife, is a name meaning pious, noble and grand.
> 
> Summary of this chapter for those wishing to avoid the BDSM sex
> 
> Mycroft and Prince Wasim spend their last night together, in a BDSM scene involving Mycroft being cut, left with an initial W on his chest and losing consciousness. Mycroft confirms he is planning, if Tamara will stay with him after tonight, to ask her to marry him. Wasim tells Mycroft that the two of them will not be able to see each other again, that he intends to give in to family demands and return to his country to marry immediately, in order to father an heir. The prospect seems like a prison sentence and Mycroft feels very sorry for Wasim, but then realises the parallel with his forcing Sherlock into exactly the same thing in order to get John out of prison (recounted in the fic "Civil War - Holmes v Holmes")
> 
>  
> 
> Music for this chapter
> 
> Depeche Mode - Master and Servant
> 
> Joan Baez - Love Song to a Stranger


	17. Mycroft tries to move on, and Bee is a chip off the old block...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some light relief. Warning for romance and humour 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should insert here some heartfelt reminder of my thanks to my marvellous and esteemed beta Frakme (Notidiotproofed) who has not only waded through my damned endless scribbling, correcting not just grammar bit also improving content, but who has reviewed stuff even where it isn't her glass of tea....I can't thank her enough and her marvellous ficlets and fics should be on everyone's reading list!

After a sleepless night, Mycroft texted John the next morning.

John frowned at his phone. He poked Sherlock in the ribs, causing the sample of ear wax the detective was peering at, to tip off the slide. He scowled.

'Mycroft wants to come over. Now if possible? He doesn't say why.'

Sherlock sighed dramatically.

‘We've just spent a fortnight with him. I thought he might be tired of us. And you know that I have scarcely managed to get any work done since we got back. Tell him to come if he must, but make it brief. You'll have to make up some excuse if he stays too long.'

'Won't be able to, sorry', said John. ‘You know I'm off to Twickenham to watch the rugby with Mike Stamford. England V Wales. Should be a good one. In fact, I'd better push off. I promised to meet him at eleven and it's half ten now.'

Sherlock glared.

'I really don't see why...'

He got a Look.

'Because we are practically joined at the hip most of the time and because you hate sitting in the freezing cold watching games that are both 'team' and involve the horror of a 'ball'. But I do. And so does Mike. And I'm looking forward to it. And if you're nice to him and nice to me, I'll bring back takeaway AND let you suck my cock tonight. I've left some of that cheesecake in the fridge. Stuff Mycroft with that, it's got the word cake in it. Maybe he won't be able to annoy you with his mouth full. Like your mouth will be, later. Love you....

And with that enticing if lewd offer, John had the nerve to leave, abandoning Sherlock to the mercy of his brother. Sherlock felt affronted. He arranged himself artfully on the sofa and waited for the cloud on his horizon to arrive.

.............

His eyes flicked open when he heard the familiar tread in the hallway downstairs. A small conversation with Mrs Hudson, then the tread, tap, tap of foot, prosthetic foot, umbrella. It used to be tread, tread, tap......

Mycroft came in, and headed straight for John's chair, but on seeing Sherlock's horrified expression he diverted his course to Sherlock's own chair instead.

Sherlock only glanced as his brother did so, but learned all he needed to. He rolled his eyes theatrically, mouth making a moue of concern.

'Ah. It is done, then, brother? Your grand night of passion with Wasim?'

'It is indeed, "done", Sherlock, as you so charmingly put it.'

'And did you come just to tell me that? You didn't need to tell me, you know that, don't you? You could have just appeared silently on Skype, like a well-rogered rather elderly rent boy who is still living the glory days of Wardour Street? You can barely sit down, Mycroft, let alone make contact with your back against the chair.....I wouldn't have taken you to be a switch, so I'm interested as to why you subbed, and wholeheartedly by the looks of it, this time?'

Mycroft twiddled his brolly and studiously avoided Sherlock's appraising gimlet gaze.

'I… needed it. That's all.'

Sherlock nodded. And deduced that the leg, the leg not made of flesh, was not yet accepted, not yet reconciled; not that Mycroft would admit that fact to him. That was what it was, though, he was certain. It would have to be something that major, for Mycroft to go against all his usual instincts and preferences. The compassion Sherlock had gradually absorbed from John's presence, now allowed him to behave like a human being, a brother, even.

'Were you safe? Did it help?'

Mycroft looked straight at him.

'Safe in the meaning of, did I trust him and am I still here and talking to you now? Yes. Possibly not in any other sense. You know how that goes. And yes. It helped a good deal. In self perception and confidence. And it was… extraordinary. Frightening, but extraordinary. You would understand. I imagine.'

Sherlock smiled to himself. Not at all safe then. They went a bit further than they should. He's sailed oh so very close to the wind. He tried to work out what aspect that took and immediately his eyes narrowed at seeing some faint but visible bruising, finger marks, right on Mycroft's neck. He understood. He nodded, bowing his head in his own submission to indicate that yes, he understood very, very well. 

Not that he wanted to discuss his sex life with Mycroft. Especially not with Mycroft.

He decided not to continue with the conversation.

'Anything else?'

Mycroft paused. And fiddled some more with the unfortunate umbrella.

'I have come to say, Sherlock, that I'm sorry.'

Sherlock looked sidelong at him. Puzzled. When did Mycroft ever apologise, properly, for anything?

'Sorry for what, exactly?'

'About Parthalan. Too little, too late, I know, but I'm sorry for forcing you to have a child. I'm sorry that I blackmailed you into it. That I gave you no choice and made you do something that you really didn't want. Played games with your life and John's too. Allowed a child to come to be who is a target because of my work and made you live in fear for him.

‘I'm just very, very sorry, Sherlock. I'm not asking for your forgiveness, I just wanted you to hear me saying it and meaning it.'

.............

Sherlock got up and stood looking out of the window. He nodded, but gritted his teeth. It hurt just to talk about it.

'I don't know if John's told you, but Bee's a mess. He's with Kirsty and Mrs Hudson now, but he won't stay with them for more than about half an hour, before he has a massive meltdown unless I come back into the room. He's not sleeping, he's not eating and is convinced that every adult apart from those in this household is determined to blow him up or take him away and slice him up into little pieces.’

Sherlock looked back at Mycroft with tears in his eyes. Mycroft could see his hair was not his usual well tamed mane, instead it looked fuzzy and wild. Shadows under his eyes told of nights without sleep.

Sherlock waved his arm wildly.

'I just want to help him, but I don't know how. John thinks he's not well enough to go back to school and I think he's right. He also thinks Bee needs to see someone, a shrink. He's six and he needs a shrink. It's like a fucking mirror, Mycroft. I just wanted him to be free of all this kind of stuff. Bad people messing with your head. Damaging you. I didn't want that for him.'

Mycroft came forward and took him in his arms.

'I know Sherlock, and I'm so, so, sorry.'

..........

They sat with tea and the cheesecake.

Sherlock looked at Mycroft.

'So, will you see him again? Wasim?'

'I will not.'

'Do you think you can keep to that?'

Mycroft's mouth twisted.

'Sherlock, Wasim is going back home. He's getting married. His family want heirs, demand them, and without me to keep him here, they've finally won. They've caged the wild bird. He's given in. Given up, really. And it's mostly my fault.'

Sherlock stared.

'I don't believe it.'

Mycroft laughed, but it was hollow.

'You'd better believe it, brother mine. He's already left the country. All his effects have been packed for shipping over. You'd never know he'd existed at all.'

Sherlock regarded him with a face that was both kind and sad.

'You know. You know he was here. That he was real. The marks that will stay on your body and the memories in your mind, they know. They know, Myc.

'And I know.'

.....................

Mycroft nodded.

'I want him to be happy, but he's made no secret that for him, this is not about that, that happiness is just a nice idea now, not reality, and that this is the effective end of his free life. That what remains is simply a life sentence to be served. He said.....he said that he will be less free, than the lowliest servant at the Palace.'

He swallowed hard. He couldn't break down here. Sherlock put a hand on his knee.

'He may be a prisoner, but he knows that you love him. And that no one can take away what you had.'

Mycroft shook his head.

'I miss him, so very much. Already I miss him.'

'I know, brother. I know you do.'

There was little more to be said. They sat there, in silence, and drank their tea, the English way of avoiding words which are to remain unspoken. The silence was louder than a scream.

....................

In a few minutes, the thirty minute coping deadline for Bee was up and sure enough he came running up the stairs from 221C, flinging himself at Sherlock and demanding to sit in his lap for a cuddle.

Mycroft smiled at the boy and quietly let himself out. There was little more to be said. There was nothing to be done. His desert rose was gone, for good.

Now it was a new day, and he needed to make of it what consolation he could.

............

Tamara was abroad again. On her return, a week after Mycroft and Sherlock had talked at Baker Street, she returned to her flat to find every available container in the place filled with beautiful, fragrant flowers. Freesias, roses, anything beautiful and fragrant. All in shades of yellow and white.

She set down her case and stared.

There was an envelope on the mantelpiece. She knew who this would be from. And why he had done it. He had done it. She sat down heavily and opened the envelope.

The beautiful, curving writing covered the heavy card, embossed with the Holmes coat of arms and Mycroft's name.

She read.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Dear Tamara.

By the time you read this, you will have concluded that I have, indeed, fulfilled the commitment I made to Prince Wasim. We spent a night together, at his flat, in line with his final request. I will not pretend that it meant nothing, for that is untrue, but it is done.

Also by the time you read this, you will be able to turn to page 4 of this week's Hello and OK magazines, copies of which are provided on your coffee table and there you will find extensive coverage and colour pictures of the marriage, earlier this week, of Prince Wasim and his bride, the new Princess Zahia.

I have no expectation of forgiveness or indulgence of my weakness, only that I hope that these subsequent events go some way to comforting you, that this was indeed a final act and not an overture, that whatever was between Wasim and myself is a chapter in a book which has been closed by us both.

Should you find it in your heart to agree to see me, with no pressure of it meaning anything more than that, it would gladden my spirits to see you.

I remain,  
Your obedient servant,  
Mycroft Holmes"

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tamara sat staring at the card. She had expected the news about the men sleeping together. She had not expected so sudden and complete a separation afterwards. And she certainly hadn't dreamed she would be looking, as she now was, at page after page of beyond lavish wedding celebrations. Of a stunning, though incredibly young looking bride. Of the bridegroom, a slim man, beyond handsome, in traditional robes. He looked straight into Tamara's eyes, staring at her out of the page. Those eyes did not look happy. His mouth smiled, polite, wealthy, generous, but the eyes were terribly sad.

She read the short accompanying article. The bride was a distant cousin. She was twenty three. The bridegroom had been abroad for some years and his return was a cause for great celebration in the kingdom, as it was hoped that an heir would soon follow.

Tamara put down the magazine. She was still unhappy about what Mycroft and Wasim had done. And didn't know whether she could get past it. But she was now starting to feel sorry for Wasim. It was clear that this was capitulation, conceding defeat. That he was going back to fulfil his family's wishes, only after losing the man he loved.

And now it was irrevocable for him. He was married and would be expected to produce children quickly.

If she rejected Mycroft now, who out of the three of them could possibly be said to have gained anything from all this? It would have been better if she had never met Mycroft, then and he could have kept his imperfect, intermittent relationship.

....................

Mycroft was in his office at the Diogenes Club when Tamara's call came through. He was working, after spending much of the previous evening staring at copies of the same magazines Tamara had seen. He, too, had seen the sadness in Wasim's face, behind the smiles and the glamour. And he had received a small package that morning, that contained a box, within which there sat a gold signet ring with a secret compartment. Inside was a tiny rolled up scrap of paper, upon which were written some words in quotation marks:

"I, too, take leave of all I ever had."

He recognised the quotation, but wondered when an Arab Prince had found the time or inclination to read Vera Brittain's diaries.

He was wearing the ring when he picked up the phone. He dialled her number.

Tamara tried not to sound nervous, although she was.

'Could we meet? I think we should talk. And thank you for the flowers. They are very beautiful, although next time I think I would prefer a small bunch of daisies and the rest of the money going to one of the charities I work with,'

Mycroft smiled.

'Point taken. Gratuitous ostentation not a plus point. If we could meet, that would be wonderful. Are you at home still? I will pick you up in the car at midday.'

They ate lunch at the Savoy, denial of ostentation not extending that far and made polite conversation circling around current events, Tamara's work and the weather. If Tamara noticed the remains of fading bruising on visible parts of Mycroft's body, she was discreet enough not to mention it.

..................

It was as they reached the coffee stage of the meal that they got down to the reason they were here.

'Thankyou for sending me the magazines, Mycroft. It came as a surprise to me, I have to admit, the wedding, only a week after Wasim left, after you two… Did you know about it? Before, I mean?'

Mycroft nodded.

'He told me. That night we… spent together. That this would be the order of events. I think he wanted to get it over with, if it was going to happen.'

Tamara looked closely at him.

'And how do you feel about it?'

Mycroft grimaced.

'It's… not easy… so soon. Though I recognise it is helpful, in terms of defining the finality and completeness of the separation. Really, it's more concern that it's not something that he wanted to happen, rather than any emotions about the two of us. There is no 'two of us' now, nor will there, nor can there, ever be.'

.........................

Tamara nodded. And grimaced a bit.

'And I need to decide whether I can live with trying to compete with a ghost, yes?'

Mycroft shook his head at her.

'No. He's not relevant to us. You are only yourself. Wasim and I have made a decision and that part of both of our lives is over, for good. You will not be competing with anyone, if you would agree to stay involved with me. You are all that matters to me now.'

Tamara nodded and took a sip of wine.

‘It's quite quick in our relationship, but do you see it as a serious long term commitment, Mycroft, because I am considering giving it a chance, but I don't want to do that if you aren't as invested in it as I could be?'

Mycroft reached across and took her hand.

'Tamara. I have never been so invested in something in my life. Come to dinner. No pressure. Come and have high tea with Rachel and I. She's missed you, you did her hair in that French Plait and she wants to see if you can teach her to do it herself, or at least put it up again for her? Will you come.' Need a question mark here.

Tamara smiled.

'I'd like that. Of course I'll come.'

....................

As Mycroft and Tamara were agreeing to try to mend their bridges, Bee was in one of his major meltdowns.

A case had come in. It was at least an eight, three bodies, or rather, three heads. Each impaled on the spikes at the Tower of London, where executed prisoners heads used to be stuck, to discourage other would-be rebels and criminals. Not subtle, but word did get round so… Now it was happening again and yet the CCTV showed nothing...

And on a morning when a case like that landed in Sherlock's lap and when John was off at Molly's with Ishbel so she and Poppy can play together and Kirsty was on holiday, Parthalan had to choose today to throw an absolute howler of a tantrum.

He wasn't back at school yet, after the trauma of the kidnapping. But even at home, with Sherlock close by, he is becoming more unhappy. Maybe it's just the lack of sleep from the nightmares and the bed-wetting. Maybe they should just be harder andto get him back to school and tough it out. Sherlock didn’t know. All he did know was that Bee is screaming at the top of his voice and has been for the past eighteen minutes, and he shows no signs of stopping and Lestrade's texts were getting ever more capitalised and sweary.

So he did the only thing he could think of. He took Bee with him.

.................

The crime scene was taped off, with flashing lights and police talking into their radios. Sherlock ducked under the tape, flashing Greg's stolen ID at anyone who challenged him. He'd done it for so long now, nicking Lestrade's credentials, that now the underlings were told to look for that, rather than anything more convincing, when someone resembling Sherlock turns up on scene. Mainly, they stop him so they can check to see if he's high...

Today, they stopped him because he isn't alone and the person he isn't alone with, isn't Sir John Watson-Holmes. It was a small, very skinny little boy, about six, with dark circles under his eyes to match his father’s and a habit of clinging to his Papa's trouser leg when they are standing still. If it wasn't for the immaculate clothing he was wearing and his cleanliness, some of the officers would have thought him one of Sherlock's army of homeless helpers. Until the boy opened his mouth, of course. Then it would be clear he was pure Holmes.

The junior officer radioed for Lestrade and he jogged over. Keeping in trim, Sherlock thought. He knew Lestrade played every Sunday over at Hackney with some of the lads.

'Sherlock. At last. You've got ten minutes, no more, then we've just gotta get these heads off the spikes and away, it's attracting a massive crowd and I want the places cleared. It's putting me off my dinner and Molly says it’s steak pie. Uhhh… Why's he here?'

Greg pointed at Bee, who stared back at him with the same forensic flesh peeling feeling from the receiver’s end as his father did. Bee then added to the overall impression by crossing his arms and frowning.

Sherlock frowned too. He gestured at Parthalan airily.  
'He's with me. He's my second assistant. John was busy being dull at the rugby.'

Bee puffed out his chest and and nodded vigorously.

'Sec assissssstunt, so I am here to eggsamine the horribly disfigured corpses and see their fingernails and other bits and test if you can still fold them in half or if they've gone all wooden and have to chop them up to do it. And then I can tell you who killed them and how what pets they have. Had. They're dead. So it would be Had.'

..................

Lestrade peered at him, not sure whether to be impressed or get straight on the blower to the child protection duty officer at the Yard. He was very thin, this lad, clearly not sleeping and he should be at school, but he guessed after the kidnap maybe he wasn't going back yet? Would be happier to see the scrap eat a proper meal, God knows his father was no example to him in that regard.

'No childcare cover? Babysitter let you down?'

Sherlock fiddled with his scarf. He didn't like to be seen as unprofessional or harnessed by any baggage. But neither would he say anything to suggest that Bee was a burden. He'd made the mistake once before of saying something foolish about Bee, his feelings about children and him once before; he had learned that particular lesson the hard way, because Bee had suffered.

'Hmmm. Something like that. Though he's done some brass rubbings in Westminster Abbey, so if you need an impression of a shoe sole or anything like that?'

'It's an effing head on a spike, Sherlock. Three effing heads on spikes. We haven't got any shoes. We haven't got any torsos or legs either, come to that. How likely am I to have a tread pattern from a trainer to show you?'

Sherlock shrugged. 'Just a thought. Maybe they walked here and then lost the rest of their body?'

Lestrade huffed into his jacket.

'Kids frying your brain? Look. Stop winding me up, Sherlock, there's my steak pie at stake and you do not piss around with that sort of prize on offer. She makes it herself. And the onion gravy. Oh, the gravy. You've no idea...'

He pointed at Parthalan, who was now hopping on one foot, his hand still in Sherlock's.

'I don't mind him being here but he's got to stay away from the scene. I'll keep an eye on him for a few minutes. Do what you can.'

........................

Sherlock was gone almost before Greg had finished speaking, long dark Belstaff coat flying behind him as he loped off towards the grisly spectacle, parting the crowds much as he had done when extracting John from the blazing bonfire.

Greg looked at Parthalan. Bee looked back up, all solemnity and big eyes. Greg waggled his finger at Bee.

'Don't you even think about trousering my handcuffs, you little wretch."

The big eyes looked horrified that Greg might think such a thing. Bee settled for having a go at sitting in the police car, switching the blue lights on and stroking the police dog in the nearby van.

Then Sally Donovan came sauntering over. Greg wondered what she might decide to say to the son of the 'Freak', but Sally, though less than a fan of Sherlock's insinuations into her crime scenes, was not going to take it out on a six year old, especially not one who had recently been kidnapped and had the epic misfortune to have Sherlock Holmes as a father.

She dug through her pockets and came up with a rather dusty packet of shortbread biscuits, the kind of miserly treat that hotels tend to add to the tea making facilities and describe as a 'hospitality tray'.

Parthalan hid behind Uncle Greg's muscly legs. He didn't know this lady.

..............

'What's his name, Greg?'

Sally was smiling at him but he didn't come out from the safety of Leg Sanctuary.

'Parthalan'. Means Bartholomew in Gaelic, apparently, before you ask. But he's usually called Bee. Less of a mouthful.

Sally sighed. The Freak might mean well with his son but honestly, what a name to saddle him with?

'Bee, would you like a biscuit and some of my flask of tea? While your Daddy is looking at the crime scene?'

Bee shook his head.

'He's NOT my Daddy. John is my Daddy.'

Greg and Sally looked at one another. The kid was the image of his father and to put it bluntly, his father was not John Watson! Then Greg realised the terminological exactitude required, when talking to a kid with two male parents.

He bent down.

'No of course he isn't. Silly us. Sherlock is your Papa, isn't he? And John's your Dad.'

'Obviously', the six year old replied, rolling his eyes. 'Fanks' and took the offered biscuit from Sally's hand, nibbling on it like a gerbil with a sunflower seed.

...............

Sherlock finished his examination, which would have been much quicker without Anderson bumbling around asking questions and trying to be pally. And even quicker if John had been here rather than at some pointless pointy ball throwing and grunting competition at Twickenham with Mike Stamford. Still, he hadn't known about the case until after John had gone and he had to admit John wouldn't have got back in time anyway.

Sherlock sat and told the wide-eyed Bee some of the details of the crimes and Bee sat wide-eyed and rapt. Greg interrupted to ask whether this wouldn't give Bee more nightmares? He knew the child was struggling to settle at night.

Sherlock shook his head.

'Bee's not frightened of this stuff, are you my wise owl? This is cartoon stuff to him. His fears are different, aren’t they, Bee?'

And Parthalan nodded, and clutched tight hold of Sherlock's thick wooden sleeve of his Belstaff.

....................

Before they left, Sherlock recounted a long and complicated deduction involving the Sicilian Mafia, two cardinals with their fingers in the Vatican till, and wholesale drug dealing in London and Naples. He also told them they would find their murderers posing as slightly inept pizza chefs at a trattoria on the Old Kent Road, just along from where Chinese Elvis performs for office Christmas parties to pissed City types......

They swept away, then. The tall dark detective with the Byronic curls and the small, thin boy with the frame of a newborn fawn and the skittishness of a foal. Greg and Sally watched them go, as Bee skipped alongside Sherlock, his small hand tiny in Sherlock's huge one

Sally was fascinated by the sight of Sherlock with a son. She never really thought of him as flesh and blood, let alone as a father. She'd assumed in the past that Sherlock was either being fucked by Greg, until Greg told her angrily that he didn't take advantage of junkies, or was asexual. Until John Watson came along, of course and then it was clear that Sherlock was homoromantic demisexual. She'd watched as his puppy dog eyes had followed John's every small movement and his delight at the man's praise.

And then, after the Barbican siege, she'd seen their relationship develop in ways she couldn't have imagined. Obviously sleeping together, yes, but more than that, although Sherlock still led the key parts of investigations, John Watson was clearly in control in their physical interaction. They were only little things, John's hand on the small of Sherlock's back, his thumb rubbing gently, his growing physical presence inserting himself in front of Sherlock when there was even a hint of a threat and most of all, John's practically murderous reactions when anyone so much as looked at Sherlock with come hither eyes.

And then, against all her expectations, there were children, first Parthalan and then Ishbel, despite the fact that the Freak still hadn't completely left drugs behind and despite he and John's well documented issues with Sherlock's psychological baggage from his childhood and John's PTSD and tendency to drink a little too much and get a little too angry than was good for them.

She had to admit, though, the little boy was gorgeous. But he definitely had some of his father's highly strung temperament, which was not an advantage for him.

...................

'Is he a good father, would you say? You see more of them than we do?

Greg made a bit of a shrug.

‘He loves his son. That counts for a lot, in my book. And his son worships him far more than my own kids have ever done with me. On paper, no he's not a great Dad, Sally. He's prone to disappear, have periodic drug relapses and occasionally dump Bee with friends when it all gets too much for him. That's not a reflection of a lack of love, just a reflection of Sherlock's own struggles, you get me? But Bee thinks he's the best Papa in the world. And he's the expert, if anyone can be, I reckon.'

Sally pondered for a moment.

'Do you think the kid is safe with him? I do a lot of child protection work, like you do, yourself Greg. He's already been kidnapped once, his father missing three times now and it's clearly taken its toll on him. At that age there can be long term effects, we both know that?'

Greg looked at her.

'Yeah. Okay. Look, I'm not trying to pretend the kid has a perfect life. And I'm realistic. If his dad wasn't Sherlock Holmes and his uncle wasn't Spookmaster General and Grand Wizard of the Universe, he'd have a good chance of being taken into care.

‘But I think we should remember that not all of this is Sherlock's fault. The kid is a target because of Mycroft's work, more than Sherlock's. And Mycroft's work is essential for all of our safety.

‘The way I see it, you wouldn't take a child off the Prime Minister or a member of the Royal Family just because they might be targets for kidnappers or assassins, would you Sally? You'd try and protect them to prevent it from happening. Sherlock did nothing wrong that caused Parthalan to be taken. He was with his nanny, not left alone. They have changed the security protocols now, so that he has an armed guard with him at all times when outside the home, but that's not ideal for a young kid either, they were trying to give him a normal life, and that's why it wasn't done before.'

Lestrade gestured over to a street corner nearby, where one of Mycroft's spooks loitered, no doubt tooled up to the max.

Sally sighed and nodded. She could see Sherlock and John were in a cleft stick, whichever way they went. Ruin Bee's childhood by stifling security measures, or risk what happened, happening again… or worse.

They watched as Sherlock and Bee neared the end of the street and Bee seemed to be tugging at Sherlock's sleeve. As they got to the corner, Bee was hoisted onto Sherlock's back and disappeared from sight, piggyback on his Papa, his small hand twisting through Sherlock's dark curls that were so like his own...

The security agent followed a discreet distance behind. There were to be no more chances taken by Mycroft Holmes with his nephew's safety from now on. Bee would be watched over every second of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I too, take leave of all I ever had"  
> This is a quotation from Vera Brittain's book, "Chronicle of Youth", which contains the diaries of her experience of losing her brother, her fiancé, and her best male friend, all within months of each other in the First World War. (To my mind, it is a much more moving read than the more famous volume based on it, Testament of Youth).
> 
> In this context, the quotation is meant to convey not a physical death, nor anything comparable to the devastation of WW1' but an individual loss: the complete and devastating loss for Wasim, not only of Mycroft himself, but of his whole life of relative freedom and expression of his sexuality, and of hope.


	18. The Michaelmas Rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tamara sees the results of Mycroft's time with the Prince. Their relationship develops.

Tamara came to Eaton Square the next afternoon. On reflection, Mycroft thought, waiting a few days might have.....lessened the obvious signs of his physical discomfort. However, he had not wanted to wait, to conceal from Tamara all that had come to pass. And she was well aware of his lifestyle. The only surprise to her might lie in the fact that it was Mycroft who had chosen to receive the injuries......

Rachel had helped to make the cake for high tea. It was a large round cherry Madeira cake, looking like it was studded with rubies, with white icing covering the top. There were also small sandwiches, made by Mrs G, which did actually have their crusts neatly cut off. Tamara had thought that an urban myth about posh afternoon tea, but here she was, in the Holmes altered reality, nibbling curiously nude-looking triangles and quaintly titled 'bridge rolls'. There were small pastries, too, some savoury with a delicious Parma ham and tomato relish filling, and some sweet, with a ricotta type paste inside.  
...........

It was a Sunday and judging from the conversation, Mycroft had apparently accompanied Rachel to church that morning at the Brompton Oratory, at Rachel's request. Rachel had been brought up a Catholic by Mary and one of the few possessions, one of the few genuine possessions Anya had owned that wasn't part of her cover story, were her rosary beads and a small statue of the Madonna and Child. Mycroft knew that James Moriarty, also, had been raised as a Catholic, first in Dublin and later when his family moved to England. 

Rachel seemed entirely devoted to her faith and the impetus behind the church attendance was genuinely all her own idea.The rosary beads lived under Rachel's pillow and the small figurine on the large walnut Davenport desk in the corner of the bedroom she now called her own. She was as devout as Sherlock was an unbeliever, and as Mycroft was a doubter. Mycroft thought Rachel and his mother (Protestant not Catholic, but High Anglican enough to enjoy bells and smells) would have much in common.

Respecting her fervour, Mycroft, or if he wasn't available, Kirsty or Mrs G, took Rachel, every Sunday, to the Oratory so she could attend Mass.

............

After tea, Rachel went off to her room, to listen to music and make more hideous friendship bracelets. Mycroft and Tamara, who had made polite small talk during the meal, were left alone together at last. Mycroft fussed and fiddled with napkins and dishes, until Tamara had to tell him to leave them.

'Of course. Sorry. I was just… well. Making these neat and tidy. Since I don't seem to be able to organise my life the same way.'

Tamara smiled.

'Let's go and sit down. We need to talk.'

Mycroft took a deep breath, and led the way into his study. It was one of the most secure rooms in the house. There was a double door system, both alarmed. The windows did not open and the walls were soundproofed. It was swept twice a day for bugs. The room was masculine, comfortable and green leather studded-back sofas, glowing mahogany antiques, and emerald glass bankers lamps provided the backdrop for their discussion.

Tamara settled down on a sofa, her shoes kicked off and her slim legs tucked up on the seat. Mycroft chose an armchair, facing and to one side. Before he sat down he fixed them both long drinks, a Martini for Tamara and a Scotch with ginger ale for him.

Tamara watched as he lowered himself into the chair. Despite it having quite a high seat level, he had to put his drink down to use the arms to lower himself in. And not because of his artificial leg.

............

He saw her looking at him.

She paused, then made a slight face.

'Would you let me see? You might need some attention to those and I know you won't be keen to visit a doctor.'

Mycroft nodded. He saw no point in being coy about the wounds; if he wanted a relationship with this woman, wanted to marry this woman, then they would be visible to her, as some of them would not disappear once healed. There was only one that he was worried might deter her.

He unbuttoned his shirt and removed his trousers, but kept his underpants on. To start with, he turned his back. He looked over his shoulder and saw her reaction. She'd clearly seen similar things before in the context of her work, but since she didn't indulge in pain play, only restrained and submissiveness herself, she'd never seen such things in a personal context.

Mycroft knew his back was a mess. But the mirror on the opposite wall above the sofa in this room gave him his first clear view of it. Having seen it, he wasn't surprised she was shocked.

He walked over to a small armoire and pulled out a first aid kit, and brought it to her. She made a quick neat job of dealing with the wounds, although she did remind him slightly sadly that some of them should have been stitched at the time, too late now for that of course.

It was when Mycroft turned around to show her his front, however, that she gasped audibly. A ridge of healing incision ran from one breast to the other, and in the centre of his chest, a clear, unambiguous capital "W" with a flourish.

..................

She stared. And then she shook her head at him. Vigorously. The unshakeable Tamara was rattled. This was not something she had expected, or thought she would be asked to deal with.

'That. Mycroft. That's really, that's not… great.

She bit her lip.

‘I would ask why he did it, though I'm not sure I'll get an honest answer. Did you ask him to? Were you in any position to influence whether he did it or not?'

Mycroft looked at her.

'I did not ask. I would not have asked for that, when I was, and am, seeking to be with you.'

'Do you wish he hadn't done it?'

'No, I do not wish that.'

'Why?'

'Because I owed him the permanence that in the end, I could never give him. He could have stayed on in London, offered himself to me periodically and made our married life difficult, awkward, embarrassing. Instead, he chose to give me up and in return, he asked for one single, night. He marked me, I believe, to record the decades of our lives spent with each other - and then he bowed gracefully out of my life, in order, he hopes, that I can find lasting happiness with you. 

‘I did not think that was too high a price for him to ask, in the circumstances.

‘I suspect that he feels, as I believe, that only in the context of a recognition of what has gone before, from us both, will enable us to build a future together that will last. And he does not want to be forgotten by me. I can only condemn him for that, if I condemn him for simply being human and frail, as we all are.

‘In other words, for me Wasim's actions say to us that if you cannot take me with this physical scar, how would you be able to take me with all my flaws and with the history that produced the scar?'

...................

Tamara frowned.

'You are a deeply intelligent and sensitive man. Yet your view on relationships is really quite simplistic, I can't put it any other way? Can it not be that a woman might be able to live with the fact of previous relationships, previous loves, maybe even old tattoos for example, but yet be disturbed by a permanent brand being made to their lover when that lover is supposed to now be with them?

‘I cannot think that you really do not understand why that would be upsetting? That it signals to a woman that a man is not committed, is only free because he has given up on his real love being free to be with him?'

Mycroft walked across to the sofa and sat down gingerly next to her, taking her long graceful hand in his.

'It is over, Tamara. This is my tattoo, my memento of the past. It stays there. I want us to be together until we are frail and ancient and mad. I want to have a reason to do my work other than just my loyalty to my country. I want someone to talk to, and sleep with, and make love to, every single day of my life, all the years I have left of it. I want to have someone other than a nephew to risk my life for. And I want that person to be you, Tamara.'

She looked at him. And saw in his eyes that he was deadly serious.

'What are you saying, Mycroft?'

'I'm saying that the past is the past, however recent that might be. I'm saying that I want you to be my future and that I need to ask you if you would do me the honour of consenting to become my wife.'

....................

He hadn't planned to propose so soon. Quite soon, yes, he had Grand-mere's rings resized and the engagement ring, a stunning piece of flawless diamonds and the best rubies in the world, was burning a hole in his suit pocket. Just… perhaps not tonight. But it had slipped out, so desperate was he for her not to slip away again, the 'more time' requests leading to a preoccupation with work priorities and the two of them slipping away again.

And if he was honest, having failed to produce his own Holmes heir, he wanted to marry whilst his father was alive to see it. The heart surgery had gone well but he was frailer year by year. It was important that he saw this.

Tamara looked at him. He pulled out the ring and opened the case.

She looked down.

'I will give you an answer, but I need to say something first. You know I was married before? Of course you do, stupid me, you have my whole file. Okay, well maybe I don't need to say all of this but I will anyway?

‘I married Tom at nineteen. He was very good looking and very popular with girls. And I was bored and flattered and swept off my feet. My Dad had buggered off long before I could remember him and there was just me and my mother and not much money, and we were always moving from one grotty flat to another in not very nice areas. My mother encouraged me to marry him. She took the view that I was young and pretty and intelligent, and later on I would only be left with intelligence, so...

‘Anyway. The decision was taken out of my hands. I was five months pregnant when we married. Tom was furious. He didn't want a kid, he wanted the young pretty wife. He had wanted me to get an abortion much earlier and I didn't. And so that's when the violence started, just slaps to begin with, but it ended up with him beating me so badly I ended up in hospital. I lost the baby a few hours after I was admitted and decided there and then I was never going to have children of my own. I saw the baby, before they took it away. I felt murderous, then suicidal, and then - I just felt empty like I've never known before or since.

‘I spent weeks first in hospital and then in a shelter for victims of domestic violence. We divorced as soon as we legally could. I haven't seen him since.'

.....................

She turned her lovely face to Mycroft, tears prickling the corners of her blue-grey eyes. Mycroft determined there and then to dig up the Tom creature, and ensure that at least some retribution came his way. Some recognition of the damage he had done.

Tamara, unaware of the dark turn his thoughts had taken, was talking again. Her voice was low and melodic. He knew from her file that she sang, an alto and he wondered if she would like to sing while he played the piano. He liked that idea, very much.

‘I also swore I would never marry again and have spent my life since, once I'd rebuilt by dignity and strength, fighting for women who are innocent victims of the wars and conflicts which are rained upon them heedlessly, invariably by men.

‘It would take a very great deal to persuade me that any man is capable of not being a potential abuser, potentially violent, potentially emotionally manipulative to a woman.'

She paused.

'You are a violent man, Mycroft Holmes. And you are also very, very, manipulative.'

Mycroft went as if to intervene. He was gutted by what he was hearing. But Tamara had not finished.

'However. There is a But, in this accusation.

‘I see your violence as controlled in a way I have not seen it in any other man. I see your manipulation as somewhat misguided at times, but invariably intended to produce a happy and peaceful result.

‘I see a man whose love for his family and specifically his love for his brother, is greater than any I have ever seen. And I don't mean the sexual side. Honestly, that is, that was, something that has been and gone and makes you also a victim of Jonathan Lang. I mean that a man who has spent his whole life trying to protect his parents from further heartache over their children and his whole career trying to protect his country from catastrophic terrorist and criminal activity, has never once asked for, or been given, the love and looking after for himself that he deserved.

‘I know that your sexuality isn't straight. I know you are bisexual. But I also understand that any risk of adultery that I face with you doesn't stem from your sexuality.

‘Your relationship with Prince Wasim was and is probably the greatest hurdle I face. I do not think you will contradict me when I say that I believe that you loved him, that you love him still, and, I suspect, on your deathbed, you will love him then, too.'

....................

Mycroft opened his mouth, and then shut it once more.....

'But I also do believe you when you say that there will be no continuation of the relationship and I do believe you when you say that you love me.

‘I believe that I love you, Mycroft. This isn't a normal situation, for a normal couple. We will not have children of our own. Your work will put me at as much risk as my own work has done. You have a step-daughter, who I adore, but I will have to work to be accepted into her life.

‘But I am strong enough to deal with all that. And I accept. I will be your wife. And I will love you and comfort you and support you, and hope you can do the same for me.  
.....................

Mycroft was shocked. He had rehearsed all of this in his head, lying in his hospital bed. Yet to hear it out loud, from her lips, was profoundly disorientating.

'My dear darling', he said, pulling her close to him. 'You will never have cause to fear me, and the only people who should fear my violence are those who would choose to threaten or come between us. Then, I will show no mercy.'

She smiled.

'It's funny, isn't it. You've brought about the deaths of more people than almost anyone else I know, warlords aside of course and yet I am trusting you with me. And we are getting married, so much in the autumn of our lives.'

Mycroft smiled back. She hadn't seen this smile before. It was smoothing out the lines of tension and pain. He looked younger than she had seen him all the time she'd known him.

'I know. We're like autumn crocuses.'

'Oi!', Tamara protested, 'can't you be a bit more poetic, or do you leave all that flowery stuff to Sherlock?'

Mycroft looked embarrassed and then brightened.

'My Michaelmas rose', he murmured, holding her hand up to the light and kissing her fingers as he slipped the ruby and diamond ring onto her finger. 'Glowing in the dusk, perfumed and beguiling. Come upon by chance and then holding the finder in her thrall, a rare and precious prize.'

Tamara cocked her head at him, and smiled.

'I knew you had it in you. Sherlock couldn't have inherited all of the romantic streak. That was beautiful.'

Mycroft coughed and shuffled around a little on the sofa.

'Yes, well. I normally choose to leave such sentimentality to my little brother, as you know. When I write poetry or prose, it is generally in Greek or Latin. I find them more expressive than English.'

'Expressive and arcane and difficult to do? Part of the attraction?', Tamara teased.

'I don't know what you're suggesting, dear lady', huffed Mycroft, and then smiled broadly at her.

..............

Their engagement was announced in the Times and the Telegraph. There were letters of congratulation from the Prime Minister and from the Queen. There was unfettered joy from his parents and warm wishes from hundreds of people Tamara had never heard of.

When Mycroft told Sherlock and John, on one of his frequent visits to Baker Street, John looked nervously at Sherlock. Not long ago, the brothers had been on top of one another, almost having sex...

Sherlock's eyes filled with tears. But John could see these were tears of joy and of relief. Relief that his brother who had almost died to save his son and who had to give up his lover, had found someone to love him like John loved Sherlock. He knew people might wonder if his good wishes were genuine. If it had been anyone other than Tamara there might have been some cause for this concern. But Tamara was different. She understood Mycroft and Sherlock, and she did not seek to come between them and to condemn them, only to heal them. He supposed he, Sherlock, loved her too, for that. Without her help, he might be dead now.

If Mycroft had to marry anyone, in Sherlock's view, it had to be her and no one else. Only she was good enough. Only she would not look at him with derision and scorn, knowing all she did about his history, his inability to shake off a childhood, interrupted by fear and disgust.

.................

Mycroft and Tamara told Rachel the next morning, although her razor sharp eyes had already spotted the ring. She examined it on Tamara's finger, and whistled.

'Cool rocks. I don't mind, so long as you don't get all shrink-y with me and ask me about my feeeeeeelings all the time.'

Tamara grinned at her.

'Only if I really want to annoy you...'

'Deal. Are there any Coco Pops? I like the milk to go all slurry-ish..'

Mycroft was in his now customary morning position, leaning back against the range cooker, the warmth matching the warmth in the atmosphere. He was under no illusion that the combination of a young girl growing up fast, and a strong and determined woman who was not her mother trying to manage her, would be a recipe for some fireworks come Rachel's teen years. But he had lived through the worst of all teenage years with Sherlock, and here they were, alive, almost whole, and looking to the future.

..................

Violet and Siger were ecstatic. Their first idea was for the wedding to be at Holmes Manor, near Bath. The acres of verdant lawns were ideal for marquees, proper high class rigid ones. "not those glorified campsite tents, darling", but Mycroft, ever mindful of the permanent zone of desolation that the Manor represented for Sherlock, ruled that out in the first innings. Instead, he gave his parents a list of options he and Tamara had drawn up. They ranged from a wedding at the Guildhall, or at Somerset House, or even at Greenwich.

But the option that was eventually chosen, was a Scottish summer wedding, partly because there were plenty of houses belonging to friends that were big enough to accommodate the guests and partly because the Scottish church had always looked more favourably on the marriage in church of couples where one or both parties is previously divorced, than the Church of England.

Besides, they thought it would be fun.

............

As they went up to bed, after finalising the basic points about the wedding arrangements, Mycroft turned to Tamara and asked her whether she was happy.

'Nearly.'

He scowled. Why only nearly? He asked her.

'Don't worry. It's just now that we are going to get married it feels very strange. I think I'd like it to be sooner than next summer. But it's fine, I just need to get used to it.'

He smiled in relief, and they headed upstairs to bed. Bedroom activities were vanilla for now, Mycroft still very tentative in getting used to his disability. And there was no suggestion that anyone other than he, would remove or attach the prosthetic leg. He saw it as symbolic of his role in the bedroom and with Tamara, he was the dominant party there.

So he removed it, they kissed and touched, and had intercourse for the first time since his injury. There had been an awkward conversation which had led to Mycroft advising Tamara that they ought to be using condoms. She had, though, been relieved that Mycroft had volunteered the information, as she had been dreading bringing it up. He apologised for the necessity, he didn't know Wasim's status and he had to admit to her he hadn't asked.

After Mycroft's first climax and Tamara's second, he lay in bed alongside her and took her hand in his. It had felt wonderfully right, even without any overlays of a scene of any kind. He gathered her head to his breast, and held her body tight to him. He knew, at that moment, that he had made the right decision. And felt like he was coming home.


	19. Parthalan's progress, a holiday and a wedding

Tamara was talking to Parthalan. Sherlock and John had been banished. Bee had refused outright to talk to a stranger, but was reluctantly persuaded to have a conversation with Tamara, because she was Uncle Mycroft's lady friend and she was going to be his Aunty, (to add to all his formidable army of other Aunties).

The two men stood in the kitchen, not quite sure what to do with themselves. They'd asked Tamara to help, because a decision needed to be made on what to do about Parthalan's schooling. If he was going to do Common Entrance and go to Eton he needed to be a year more in pre-prep, then Prep school and then off to Eton at 13, two years later than most state schools made the transition.

But was that going to be his path? He was highly intelligent, but seemingly unable to socialise with other children, very much like Sherlock and Mycroft had struggled at his age. He was extremely highly strung, ate little and seemed to operate entirely on the nervous energy that radiated from every pore. It was impossible to tire him out, but he saw demons, Dragons and ghosts around every corner. Put simply, he was exhausting to be around, but never seemed exhausted himself. His only quietude came when shadowing Sherlock, when a switch seemed to click and he would curl up into a small ball on the sofa, watching, or stand just behind his leg, observing all and saying little.

.................

John was in favour of a radical solution and it was one that surprised Sherlock.

He thought that Sherlock and Bee should abandon the idea of formal school for a term at least and they should all go off on holiday, just the four of them. No nannies, no spooks, no entourage. To give them all, John said, time to heal from their recent traumas and for Bee to grow secure that Sherlock would not only be there for him, but for this period, would be there only for him.

After that, John thought Bee should go to Rachel's school in Dorset, until he was ten. To ride, have extra dancing lessons which they could arrange and give Sherlock the space he needed to recover his own equilibrium.

And then, John thought, Bee could aim to win a place at White Lodge, the Royal Ballet school.

No Eton. No Holmes tradition. No wing collars.

Sherlock had initially dismissed all this out of hand, if only because he thought he knew Mycroft would never stand for it. And he wasn't sure about the holiday without security either. It was only weeks since their security detail had been drastically upscaled to fully armed, 24/7.

But what they could both agree on was that they needed to know what Parthalan himself wanted and they were both too close to the picture to be the right people to tease that out of their son.

Hence, the closed door, the low murmur of voices and the large plate of Jaffa cakes that was being consumed in between glasses of watered down fruit juice (Bee) and Lady Grey tea (Tamara).

...................

Tamara watched Bee as the little boy swung his legs on the chair, fidgeting constantly.

'Would you like some tea, Parthalan?'

He made a screwed up sort of a face. A sort of 'I don't want what you're offering but I might like something in the same category' kind of face.

"Milk?"

She got a nod, and a slightly lisped "Yeth pleath" and poured out a cup of milk. Bee drank a long draught and put the cup down. He had a milk moustache but Tamara didn't mention it and it gradually disappeared by itself, as he licked his lips a lot when thinking about the answers to her questions.

................

She started by asking him about his family life here at 221B. About John ("Dad is too strict and makes me eat peas too much but is the best for cuddles and ironing my uniform") and about Sherlock ("Papa is amazing, no one is as clever as him, sometimes he lets me help him with his eggsperiments and detectiving and he has the best ideas of things to do, but sometimes he is sad or angry and sometimes he's not here at all. Then Dad gets sad too, or sometimes nearly angry and he bangs around the flat a lot and sometimes says bad words."

'And Ishbel?'

'Ishbel is just sort of there. She's sweet I suppose. She's annoying when she cries. She's fun to play with sometimes and to dress up. She likes dressing up. She can't dance like me. She has lots of friends and I don't. I'm not sure why, it might be because she's a girl.'

'So you think she has lots of friends because she is a girl? Why do you think that?'

'I don't know? It can't just be that because other boys at school have friends. But I don't know if I really want them or not. I want them to like me, but they don't seem to like me and I don't want to change enough to make them like me… And a few don't like me because of Papa and Dad.'

Tamara leaned forward.

'What about Papa and Dad? 

'They say horrible things about them. And they say I should have a mum and dad, not a Dad and a Papa. That it's not right. I don't know what to say.'

'Why do you think they say that?'

Parthalan screwed his face up. 

'I think maybe their parents told them, or said something, because they say "my mum says" or "my dad says" most of the time.'

Tamara nodded.

'I think you're right. Sometimes parents aren't as smart as children. You know your parents are the best in the world. And you know that's what is important. They don't care about you or how good Dad and Papa are. They just make a rule to say, because Dad and Papa are both male, that can't work, or isn't right, or is harmful to you. Which you know is not true and remember, you, unlike them, have direct experience. So your opinion is much, much more important than theirs because of that. Would you agree?

Parthalan nodded vigorously. And looked a bit happier. He even smiled a little bit. Tamara hadn't really seen him smile? It was bewitching. God, Sherlock might not be a great parent in many respects but his genetics, and Anthea's too, should be bottled. 

This boy was going to break many hearts, though she had no idea whether it would be boys’ or girls’ hearts, or both.

....................

Tamara turned to other matters.

'Your parents are thinking of taking you and Ishbel on holiday, you know. A long one. Just you two and them, both of them. Would that be something you would like?'

Parthalan looked excited for a minute or two, then doubtful.

'Would Papa go?'

'Papa would go.'

Bee looked surprised.

'Would I miss ballet lessons and gym club?'

'A few sessions, but extra ones could be arranged before you went and after you got back. And you would have exercises to practice and perfect while you were away.'

'Mmmm. What about Uncle Mycroft's wedding day. He's marrying you and so Papa will need to be there, won't he?'

'Of course he will and you'll be back just before the wedding. Don't worry your head. Papa will be Mycroft's best man.'

'Best man?'

'Yes, he looks after everything so the one getting married can just relax and he keeps the rings safe until they are needed in the ceremony.'

'Oh. Right. Does he get more wedding cake if he's Best Man?'

'I think he probably does. Although your Papa might only pick off the icing and eat that, from what I've seen of his eating habits. What about you? Would you eat wedding cake?'

'Yes if it's sponge with icing, no if it's fruit cake with gritty flies in it.'

'By gritty flies I'm assuming you mean currants?'

'I don't know what currants are. I don't like cake with gritty flies.'

'I think the name for gritty flies in the cookery books is currant? Have you had them in something else that you've eaten then?'

'Gritty fly biscuits'

'Ooookkkkkaaaaayyyy', Tamara smiled. I'll put you down as a NO for Garibaldi biscuits then, I think. I promise to have a wedding that is entirely gritty fly free, will that do?'

'Yep. Sponge. One you can press down and it goes boing up again. With icing. Maybe with smarties on?'

'We'll think about the Smarties… but I can definitely promise the sponge and the icing.' 

.................

In the end, the holiday was shorter than they planned, at about five weeks. Sherlock and John took the children to Corsica, Sherlock judging it to be the "least dull" of the available options and Mycroft having vetted all the possibilities, finally relenting to a compromise of security at a discreet distance in an adjoining cottage. There was no possibility of Mycroft agreeing to any greater loosening of the security ring around them. And he insisted that John was armed rather more heavily than normal and arranged for everything except the SIG to be couriered in via diplomatic bags.

They had rented a cottage a little way inland, closer to the mountains than the sea, a location which had cleared all the security sweeps and enjoyed the May and June weather, which seemed to follow a pattern of blazing sunshine all day until about four pm, when there was a brief thunderstorm, followed by more sunshine.

The trip was hideously expensive, Corsica not being cheap and Sherlock insisting on shipping in great boxes of scientific equipment to allow him to conduct experiments while they were away as a condition of going. But it was more than worth it. John gradually saw a new side to his husband, a slight unwinding of his taut nervous energy-fuelled flourishes. By week three, Sherlock occasionally looked relaxed and for the first time ever, John was occasionally up in the morning when Sherlock was still fast asleep in bed.

The extended holiday was good for Parthalan too. Having Sherlock there all the time seemed to give him a little more self confidence. John didn't know if it would be a springboard to more progress once life returned to normal, or a false security which would make him worse than ever once he no longer had the crutch of Sherlock's presence, but for now, it was just very moving to see him come out of his brittle little shell and interact more.

They ate delicious pork from the pigs that ran wild in the chestnut woods and all sorts of food made of the chestnuts from the same trees. Young fresh cream cheese called Brocciu was a special favourite of the children and the herbs of the Maquis lent everything they ate a perfumed note. The forests smelt of Corsican pine and John concluded this was probably the only holiday destination he'd been to where the reality matched up with the carefully selected holiday brochure photos. They even managed to drag Sherlock to the beach a couple of times, although he sat under a large beach umbrella and scowled until Bee decided to do a gymnastic display and all the other parents clapped, whistled and cheered, and John glanced at Sherlock's face and it was literally beaming with pride.

They returned to London a few days before Mycroft's wedding, tanned and relaxed and, in Sherlock and Parthalan's cases, a little more healthy looking than previously. John wished the holiday could have never ended. But they had a wedding to attend...

......................

The wedding day dawned rainy but by nine, the rain had blown over and the skies were starting to hint at sun.

Sherlock and John plus the children were in a cottage on the Mar Lodge estate, near Braemar. The wedding was to be at the tiny Crathie Kirk and the reception at the estate ballroom, famed for its two and a half thousand pairs of deer antlers studding the walls and ceiling.

Mycroft and Tamara hadn't chosen it so much for the impressive but slightly gruesome interior decoration, but more for its isolated and easily guarded location and the fact that this was one of the few big estates that could accommodate a decent number of guests overnight. About thirty were staying in the main house or cottages on the estate. These chosen few were selected on the basis of being family, or especially requiring of security protection.

Two guests did not require accommodation; Prince Charles and the Duchess of Cornwall (or to give them their titles in Scotland, the Duke and Duchess of Rothesay) would be attending direct from a house on the Balmoral estate, just a few miles down the main A93 road. They were representing the Queen, who had planned to attend, but was instead remaining at Windsor to be with Prince Philip, who was a little under the weather. 

Charles and Camilla were not in Balmoral Castle itself, as the house is open to the public every month in the summer season except August, when it closes for the Royals to take up residence for their summer holidays.Charles was an old friend of Mycroft's, sharing his passion for tradition and quality craftsmanship, though Mycroft did not share Charles' love of the great outdoors, especially if it involved mud. Instead they discussed artisan tweed weavers and stick-makers.

..............

When, at last, the wedding ceremony began, and Tamara walked down the short aisle, supported by her uncle, as her nearest surviving male relative, John sneaked a quick look behind him and whistled in a low tone.

She looked stunning.

He dress was simple cream silk, with georgette cap sleeves. It was in a Regency style, Tamara having the height and modest chest to carry it off, and her veil was very long, like a 1920's style. Her bouquet was more of a posy, a small arrangement of blue, yellow and white flowers, focusing on cornflowers, aquilegias and other native flowers with brilliant fresh colour and small perfect blooms. Nothing blowsy or gaudy, just like the bride. She avoided that trap perfectly.

John looked towards Mycroft. He, too, had disobeyed the tradition of the bridegroom not peeking and he was openly turning round to see his bride. Although there was a "no photographs" rule except when specifically permitted by the rather stern looking minister, John did sneak a shot of this moment on his phone. He had to capture the look on Mycroft's face. It was a mixture of joy, love and pride, that look that people have when they have been travelling for months and they finally open their own front door and know they are home.

\-------------------

The service was much like any other, there's only so much improv in the ancient rite and after the solemn exchange of vows, everyone sat down in the Ballroom under those ever-looming antlers for the reception meal. It was tasty and properly Scottish, with local smoked salmon followed by Aberdeen Angus beef and then Cranachan. 

Sherlock picked at bits and pushed the rest around his plate. John scoffed his in record time, but then, he didn't have to make a speech as Sherlock did. Ishbel ate some breadsticks and some mashed potato and half a tangerine plus a squashed looking orange cream Quality Street she'd pinched from the reception desk. John groaned and made a note to himself to try to enthuse her about fruit and veg a bit more. Bee mirrored Sherlock's playing with his food, and only ate some of his salmon and beef when he thought no one was looking and especially Sherlock. Again, John noticed this and stored it up. He would have to speak to Sherlock. They couldn't have their son modelling his eating habits on Sherlock's and that seemed to be the pattern that was emerging.

By the time the silverware was tinkling against the crystal to silence the low hubbub of chatter, Sherlock was looking nervous. His speech at John's wedding to Mary had been a ridiculously OTT declaration of newly realised love and hopeless, ardent devotion. His speech at his own wedding had been perfunctory at best, so eager was he to dispense with the formalities and get John alone so that "his husband" could give him a splendid seeing to. John's own speech, by contrast, had, of course, been perfectly judged and very moving, the more so because everyone knew that John found it difficult, "this stuff"...

This time, Sherlock had to make a speech about Mycroft. A man who had provided love and security in his childhood, who had tried tough love when Sherlock broke out of accepted behaviour in his teens and twenties, who had enveloped him in a cocoon of protection and restriction ever since. And had never been an ordinary brother.

\--------------

As he stood, John caught his hand and squeezed it. It was trembling. Sherlock on a case, deducing, reasoning, accusing, was a whirlwind, a tour de force of concentration and confidence to the point of arrogance. No room for doubt, no room for nerves, no room for anything other than complete and total conviction.

Sherlock making a personal speech about the brother he was tied to by bonds far beyond fraternal loyalty. Odi et Amo; I hate and I love. That summed it all up. He had fought the man who had taken the broken bird that William had been and mended his wing fractures, but then held him under his watch, under his protection, under his sponsorship. An aviary, no matter how large, is still a prison.

Time to say his piece.

Silence descended. Those who had not heard Sherlock public speaking before, were expecting great things, memorable mots in a deep baritone. Those who had, were wincing before he'd even started, clearly expecting a car crash.

And in the end, it was neither of these things. Sherlock spoke quietly but clearly, about the boy Mycroft who had played, romped and cared for his much younger brother. He spoke, for the first time ever in public, of the death of Sherrinford and how that shaped Mycroft into his life of public service and personal risk. He spoke of the sacrifices he had made, for Sherlock in the bad times, for Bee very recently, for his parents over decades and for his country his whole life. He spoke of Rachel and the joy she had brought to Mycroft's life so late and unexpectedly and how proud he was of her.

And he spoke of Tamara and the role she had played both for Sherlock, as a therapist and for Mycroft, as a true soulmate, someone who was as brave and selfless as he was himself, someone who he had found true peace and joy with. Someone who would not tolerate excessive pomposity, but loved him for it regardless.

And then Sherlock finally thanked Mycroft. For saving his life on innumerable occasions. For saying no when he needed to (a veiled reference to Spain) and for not only bringing about his son's existence, but saving his life and losing a leg for his efforts.

He also thanked Tamara. Mycroft, he said, had saved his life many times. But Tamara had made it at possible for him to be able to contemplate living with surviving, wanting to go on.

He wished them long life, much happiness, and a peaceful centenarian-plus aged end peacefully in their sleep. He raised a toast. The congregation stood, they toasted, and they drank deeply.

............

Those in the audience who were unaware of Sherrinford's death and also did not understand Sherlock's oblique references to his abuse and its aftermath, looked impressed but shocked by his speech.

Those who knew, were deeply moved and started the applause. Soon the others joined in, as the confused tend to in a crowd, and there was cutlery clanging and hands clapping all around the room. Molly was in tears. Mrs Holmes was in floods. Mrs Hudson bit her lip and sniffed. And Mycroft looked damp eyed and softly at his little brother.

Sherlock looked completely drained.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mar Lodge  
> http://www.nts.org.uk/Hire-a-venue/Mar-Lodge/
> 
> Wedding dress  
> http://uk.monsoon.co.uk/view/product/uk_catalog/mon_4,mon_4.1/3530124612#
> 
> Queen Mother / Lady Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon (for the train length/style)  
> http://fashion.telegraph.co.uk/galleries/TMG8466339/3/Royal-wedding-dresses-through-the-years-in-pictures.html


	20. The Lovers....and news of a Prince

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for explicit sexual content

There hadn't been much in the way of sex in Corsica. Unused to the children being so close by and constrained by the fact that Sherlock, in particular, was by consensus "a bit of a shrieker", Sherlock and John made love only three or four times during the month away. Always quietly, always conscious of sharp ears and a Bee that didn't sleep much. Then there was Mycroft's wedding and all that accompanying organisation, so it wasn't really until that was all over, that the two men stood alone in 221B once more, children safely tucked up in 221C with Kirsty looking over them.

Neither of them would openly admit it, but they were both frustrated with the lack of intimacy that holidaying, enjoyable as it was, had afforded. It had also made John realise just a little of the challenge Sherlock found in fathering the children, so much so that even John himself now had no wish to dispense with their nanny or the unconventional living arrangements, and didn't plan to have the children sleeping in a room next door to them at home anytime soon. If that made them bad parents, on top of their same sex relationship, then he reckoned people would would have to live with it, and suck it up. It was their family, and their life.

.......................

It was about ten in the evening and they were side by side on the sofa; the same sofa where a drunk Sherlock had once put his arm around an even drunker John after John's stag night and then a client had arrived talking about "a date who was a ghost" and nothing had come of it then, both men crippled by words unspoken. Now, they sat there as increasingly grey-haired husbands, with the television on but neither of them watching the news, nor the weather, nor the local bulletin "from where you are" (unlikely, in reality, Sherlock insisted).

They were kissing, John's tongue probing Sherlock's mouth and the end-point was as accepted as it was unspoken, but they were taking their time. John was slowly undressing his creamy-skinned Phoenix and as he did so, he was humming at points of special scenic interest and Areas of Outstanding Natural Beauty, (of which he found many to admire on Sherlock's sparse, toned frame). He continued worshipping them with his eyes, his short skilled fingers and his small pink clever tongue.

Sherlock himself wasn't really contributing much to proceedings, unusually quiet and content, lying back against the sofa cushions, gripping the back of the sofa as the sharp and sweet sensations built. John, his strong, brave, good John, expert John, was unzipping him now, like a designer handling an haute couture creation costing thousands. Delicately freeing Sherlock's aching cock, tapping his hip and putting his mouth close and whispering 'Lift for me, love, yeah, just like that. My good lad. Mmmm. You're needing this as much as me.'

It was, in truth, almost worth all the weeks of limited sex and frustration, to be here, like this, with John taking care of everything, most of all him. Calling him his "good lad". This was very heaven.

Sherlock slumped back, an arm flung across his face and groaned a sound of pure pleasure as he felt a tiny rush of air when John leaned down and licked the underside of his straining cock. It was followed by a much deeper groan, a moment later, when John started to take him fully in his mouth, tongue swirling, lips licking and sucking. Sherlock tried not to grab hold of John's hair, tried not to thrust hard into John's willing and eager mouth, instead clenching the sofa with one hand and stuffing his other fist in his mouth. He knew the teeth marks in his hand would last for days. He hoped they did.

\--------------

Just when Sherlock thought he would come from this alone, John, saliva running from the corner of his mouth, pointed at him, prostrate and aching to come, and shook his head. Folded his arms, even, sergeant major style.

'Get up. Stand against the wall. Hands above your head, braced on the wall. Don't speak.'

Sherlock couldn't get there fast enough. He was still clothed, though with his suit trousers bunched around his hips, so he gathered them in one hand and shuffled forward. Then he followed John's instructions, completion bringing the reward of John's hands running smoothly down his sides, down to his hips, where they gripped suddenly, there, hard. He heard the click of the cap on the lube. Felt broad (capable, doctor's) fingers circling his entrance. Cool slick lube, then a finger searching and probing. He tried to push back, but John was strong, his forearm braced against Sherlock's back. He wasn't going to be allowed to dictate here, then. Two fingers. Then three. John finally allowing him a little freedom of movement.

He was writhing and squirming now, struggling to keep his hands above his head, biting his lip as John continued to stretch him and tease him with agonisingly exquisite brushes against his prostate which made him bite his lip to the point of it bleeding. The harsh metallic taste made him momentarily remember contrasting scenes. A dungeon in Serbia, torture making his mind wander as the blood ran down his face and into his mouth. And a bedroom in Pall Mall, tied to a bed, as a Prince rained blows down on his naked frame. 

\-------------

His breath was quick and shallow now, quite unlike John's, which was deep and long and turning Sherlock on even more than he already was turned on. He didn't understand how other people didn't see the truth about John, didn't always recognise all that he was. Perhaps it was for the best. He didn't want to share this,

He turned his head briefly.

'That's enough, get in me. Fuck, John. I need you in me.'

John, who was busy rubbing and sliding his prick up and down between Sherlocks plush buttock cheeks, aching and hard, looked smug and cocky. He gave another, more forceful shove with his broad slick shaft, making Sherlock gasp.

'Greedy lad are we? I would tell you patience is a virtue. But to be honest, I agree. I'd rather just let you have at it, love.'

With that, Sherlock felt the smooth bluntness of John pressing against him, pushing and demanding, then the swift ache and sting as Sherlock's body gave him priceless access past the first ring of muscle.

John was growling slightly and his face was pressed against Sherlock's shoulder blade. Sherlock knew what he wanted from John. Rough, noisy sex. And he wanted to feel John mark him.

John did not disappoint. Within seconds of perceiving the prevailing mood, he was fucking Sherlock into the plaster wall, and then, dissatisfied with the contact and force he could exert, he exerted a vice like grip around Sherlock's waist, and still impaled within him, John dragged him roughly to his own tartan armchair and bent him over the back of it. Sherlock gripped hold of the chair's arms, his cock rubbing up against the coarse weave of the chair every time John slammed into him. His smile was much like that when Mycroft emerged out of the Serbian gloom and told him he was returning to Baker Street.

\---------------

John was a man on a mission. It was like Sherlock was the Earth and John was trying to reach the red hot core of him. Sherlock played his part, by reaching behind him and dragging scratches down whatever part of John he could touch, but his freedom of movement was limited to start with, and still more so once John had grabbed him by the hair and the whine that resulted made it clear that this was the sort of thing Sherlock was looking for.

John was thrusting faster now, muttering out loud 'Fu.....fu...ccckkkkk!' Sherlock's head pulled back by the hair, his neck exposed. Sherlock knew he was close, could feel his balls drawing up and back. He groaned. John leaned in and bit him hard on the junction of his neck and shoulder. Then John's hand moved to his nose and mouth, covering both. Not enough to completely block his airways, John was moving too  
roughly now for that, his rhythm stuttering as he neared completion, giving Sherlock odd small gasps of breath, but those were small and unpredictable and the deprivation of free air was more than enough to send Sherlock into the stratosphere.

'Mine. Come for me, Sherlock. Fucking come for me. I want to feel you round me and when I do I'm going to fill you with me, with my come. Flood you. Ruin you. Come. NOW.'

And right on cue, Sherlock yelled and came and his come shot all over the chair seat cushion. John, spurred on by the clamping around his pulsing cock, followed almost immediately behind, making good on his promise of filling Sherlock with himself and they fell forward, over the chair back, slumped exhausted and sated.

'Fuuuuuuuccckkk', said John, hoarsely and with relish. He gradually withdrew, enabling Sherlock to produce a disturbingly glittery plug from God knows where, smiling smugly as he ensured both that John's load stayed within him, and that lube would not be required for round two, once they recovered stamina.

..............

Mycroft and Tamara were on holiday. Since Mycroft's complexion and scorching sun definitely didn't mix well, (lobster would be a good description), they had decided on a low key holiday in Brittany and Loire-Atlantique. They ate crepes and crab, steak and frites, breakfasted on pain au chocolat and frothy coffee. When they did venture to the beach they bought lemon sorbets from tall slim North African men who paced the sands with iceboxes full of cooling treats.

They needed the energy. Sherlock and John might have been enjoying their slice of peace and quiet to indulge their carnal appetites, but Mycroft was one of those quiet, urbane types, who behind closed doors is an insatiable animal. He found the concept of Tamara as 'Mrs Holmes' unbearably arousing and she only had to answer the telephone at Eaton Square using that phrase with her low dark voice, and all hope of concentrating on matters of state importance were utterly lost.

Thankfully, Anthea was both highly amused by his out-of-character distraction and more than capable these days of comprehensively covering for him. For the first time, Mycroft wondered whether retirement would be as awful as he'd always assumed? As he smiled down at his beautiful sub wife, he thought maybe it would just give him more time for his… hobbies?

..............

Thousands of miles away and a few hours time difference, a slim robed figure was reading an out-of-date copy of the London Times and drinking thick dark coffee. He scanned disinterestedly over the prose for a few minutes, but then suddenly stopped reading, his cup just short of his lips, his eye caught by a name.

Under the Announcements section, was the notice of a wedding having taken place,  
******************  
"of Mycroft Holmes GCMG, Bt and Tamara Stephens OBE at Mar Lodge, Aberdeenshire. The honeymoon will be spent in France."  
*******************

The man's face, still beautiful but no longer with the spark of joy in life it had once shone with, grew grave. He had released Mycroft so that this could happen. He should be happy for the man, happy for them both. 

Instead, he felt the last cobweb-thin connection to Mycroft break, the fragile thread floating in the air, and with it, his heart broke entirely. A cold dread gripped him.

It was time to make plans.

..................

It was about ten months after Mycroft and Tamara returned from their honeymoon, that one of Mycroft's aides actually knocked on their door of their private soundproofed "playroom". That simply never, ever happened and it was more than anyone's life was worth to do so.

But this official had in previous years often been on security detail when Mycroft had visited Pall Mall. Had noted that when Mycroft and Prince Wasim split, Mycroft retained a small proportion of the security monitoring of Wasim, reading and watching updates periodically, never commenting and never ordering any further action. The aide himself had seen at least one section of tape, showing Wasim escorting his young wife to some function. He thought the man looked ill at ease, but it wasn't his place to comment, he had only been there to get the right section of tape ready.

When the knock came, it occurred to Mycroft that someone thought this was worth risking his ire. So he extracted himself and his darling wife from their games, cleaned himself up, redressed and then, finally, answered the door with a stern countenance but more concern as to the level of emergency that would cause this outrage.

The face of the man at the door was a mixture of fear and tension.

'Tell me', Mycroft barked.

'Perhaps if we...' The man indicated away from the room where Tamara stood.

Mycroft shook his head.

'I have no secrets from my wife. Nor will I have. Please wait for both of us in the drawing room.'

.............

They sat perched on sofas and chairs.

It took a minute or two for the man to start speaking, but Mycroft realised why once he began.

His garbled diction was quite unlike his normal demeanour.

'You will be aware sir, of the Islamic agitation in the DAK (Democratic Arabian Kingdom). Initially low level protests, focusing on Western oil interests. Expanding to more general social issues, the treatment of migrant workers. Now there is the new phase of foreign born fighters flooding in and occupying areas of strength in the kingdom. Demanding immediate comprehensive implementation of Sharia law and the overthrow of the monarchy.'

'Indeed', said Mycroft. ‘My… friend, Prince Wasim was closely involved, is closely involved with efforts to address many of the social justice issues in the hope of taking some of the heat out of the remainder of the demands. He had sympathy with many of the protestors, but sadly the majority of his relatives do not share his opinions.'

'I understand sir.'

'So if we all understand, Hamilton, why are you here? What, exactly, is news?'  
Hamilton (who must have had a first name but didn't seem to expect it to be used) seemed to hold himself still for a moment and took a breath.

'It's the prince, sir. He's disappeared. No-one knows if it's of his own volition, at the hands of jihadists, or at the behest of senior members of his own family displeased with his fraternisation with the protesters agenda.'

Mycroft turned pale.

'When you say disappeared?'

'Not seen since last weekend. The royal family aren't giving much away. The Islamist extremists haven't made any claims but neither have they denied involvement. Video evidence seemed to show some indications of depression.'

'Indications?'

Your… Prince Wasim had taken to consulting a psychiatrist in recent weeks. And.. .there was a… youth. A young man. The prince had been… visiting him… for the last couple of weeks. But just before he disappeared Prince Wasim told him he would not come again.

.................

 

Mycroft walked over to the window, and gazed out with unseeing eyes. Damn the distance and politics that meant they had so little to go on. Damn himself for being so selfish, as to put his own happiness on a pedestal and to let the most loyal and trustworthy of men go to hell.

He turned and looked at Tamara. He was intending to say that he needed to find out what had happened. But he didn't have to.

Tamara sat him down on a chair and took his hands in hers.

'I know you need to find him. To find out what has become of him and why. Never be scared to tell me that you care about other people, especially when I already know that you do. I have no wish to live with a man who loves no one but me, for what kind of a man would that be?

‘Only promise me that you will be careful and that you will try your hardest to come home safe. If his family or Islamist militants are involved then it may be extremely dangerous for you to set foot on the soil. If and when possible, please allow others to take that risk, especially given your physical vulnerability.'

Mycroft placed his head against her side. He'd thought he couldn't love her any more. But he loved her even more now, than ever.

.......................

He didn't look at her as he said his next sentence.

'I might need to engage Sherlock's help.'

Tamara frowned. This was where she was not at all comfortable with Mycroft's plan.

'Mycroft, I do not wish to interfere but I am not at all sure that is wise? Does he not have enough on his plate with Bee's issues? And the last time one of he or John were on a mission at your instigation, bear in mind how it turned out...?'

Mycroft did know, only too well. The chopper crash, John as a hostage, John raped by his captors and his smashed arm almost having to be amputated when they finally got him out, long after Mycroft had given up on extracting him. It had not been Mycroft's finest hour. John's knighthood couldn't make up for what he had lost and suffered.

'Very well. I will not ask Sherlock to partake in any legwork. Especially as Blackwood looks as if he wasn't in the kidnap party we took out, so there remains a risk to their security and ours. But I would like his help from his end, if you think he is mentally well enough to get involved.'

.......................

This was a first. Mycroft often consulted others, but not where personal matters were concerned. He and Tamara really were proving to be a cooperative partnership, rather than a Holmesian dictatorship.

Tamara nodded.

'Stick to analysis of footage, documents etc. Put John in charge of how much crosses Sherlock's path. If John tells you to back off, that's it, you back off. There's no point finding Wasim and losing your own brother. Remember that he's still vulnerable to addiction and suicidal thoughts and is ill-equipped to deal with Parthalan's insecurities which have only increased after his kidnapping. John is doing a brilliant job taking the strain and things are better after the holiday, but it's still early days.'

Mycroft held her, as Hamilton discreetly disappeared.

'You really are the very best thing that has ever happened to me, you know? I never really knew that I was not as happy as I could be, until you came along?'

She rubbed her cheek against his chest.

'You romantic thing. I just worry, not so much about the risks, because your whole life contains that, but I worry that you may not find him, or you may find that it is too late, and that something terrible has happened.

‘If it has, please Mycroft, don't start the blaming yourself pattern again. You did it with Sherry, even though that wasn't your fault. And with Sherlock, and that wasn't either. If something has befallen Wasim, it is primarily as a result of his decision to move back home. He could have stayed in London...'

She trailed off. She knew her words were falling on dry parched ground, unable to penetrate. Of course Mycroft would blame himself, given that it was his severance of his connection with Wasim that had instigated the Prince's change of heart and the move back to DAK.

'I have to find him, Tamara. Alive or… not... I owe him so much.'

'I know, I know you do. Maybe you'll find him alive. Maybe everything will be well. Perhaps he will come to London with his wife and baby, and things will be better. Don't let go of the hope. Not yet.'

As she spoke, he buried his head into her shoulder and she felt hot soft wetness as tears fell from his eyes. He lifted his head a little and whispered.

'I must find him.'

And he soon turned to pack his bags.

................

Under a burning desert sun, a robed figure lay in the driving seat of a large off-road jeep. The desert wind starting to cover the tyre tracks that had stretched far back across the featureless landscape. Seventeen miles from the Palace, a scorching barren wilderness.

An empty water bottle lay nearby. The man, for the figure was male, made no movement, the only disturbance to the searing heat the circling of a bird of prey, too high up to be identified. 

Sleeping?

Alive?

 

.......To be continued..........

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of this part of the story! However, leaving it on this cliffhanger means that there will be a further part to reveal exactly what has happened to Wasim, how far Sherlock gets involved, and what will become of Sherlock, John and Parthalan and Ishbel both from the threat posed by Blackwood and also as the children grow older.
> 
> I should say that the DAK is of course a totally made up place, although based on descriptions of several real life Arab States where friends were brought up.
> 
> I do know what has happened to Wasim, and the core of the next story, so it won't be a cliff hanger forever. I'm aware that these stories have strayed quite a long way away from ACD and BBC, but even if only a few people hang on for the rest of the ride, that's fine for me, I'm just so grateful that anyone reads it, let alone enjoys or appreciates it! Leave comments or kudos or both if you did! 
> 
> XxxTeaandcakesxxxxxx


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